intended souls | a lullaby on his throat chapter five
pairing: demigod!hyunjin x f!reader | word count: 13k | genre: mythology au, romance | warnings: adult and sometimes dark themes ; complicated feelings ; angst ; elements of contemporary fantasy ; explicit sexual content. This work is for adult audiences only.
You had known it before, but you were certain now—you would love him even if it annihilated you molecule by molecule. It was not something you could control and yet it felt like a choice, a conscious decision. You loved Hyunjin, and for as long as your heart would beat and perhaps even after, you would continue to love him.
One never really gets used to solitude.
There is no getting used to loneliness, there is only an illusion of it. The origin of this mirage most often comes from one’s foolish desire to be anything but hollow. Because, at its core, isn’t this what loneliness is? To be lacking something, something substantial enough that its absence alters us? Not everything can cause such a feeling. Loneliness, the true kind. Not everything holds enough weight for us to be off-balance once it is taken away from us. Or rather, once it is taken from within us.
Sometimes, it can feel as though something precious melted and disappeared, or like it waited while we were looking the other way before sneaking out. There is violence in that, in this betrayal—it’s difficult to process the shift when we do not see it unfold.
Other times, solitude is expected—but only truly lonely people can understand such a thing. Some people are made lonely and others are born lonely. In this case, it is much like a curse, something that follows us everywhere we go, lurking, but never far.
In this case, it feels like the beautiful and precious thing has been denied to us. Like, perhaps, we failed some sort of test and were proven unworthy of it. There is no suitable analogy for it—we could compare it, however, to having our chest cut open with a badly sharpened knife before our heart is torn away. Most of the time, they don’t bother sewing us back up, and then we become the wound that was inflicted upon us. Bleeding, raw, unsightly enough that people look the other way so they don’t have to see it.
Only the best things can cause this sort of pain, only the most beautiful things can become so foul, so terrible.
When something makes you fly high, it means the fall is harder, more brutal, but unfortunately not lethal.
You never got used to solitude.
It followed you all your life, really—at one point, you told yourself that you were meant to be alone, so you tried to embrace it. And you did so successfully, but to embrace and to get used to it are two very different concepts, and, in fact, they have nothing to do with one another.
It was as you reflected on solitude that you came to realize that a large room full of people sounded a little like the ocean. Murmurs of conversations came all together to form a whole, the sound of it echoing on the walls and the high ceiling, like ripples on water. At its faintest, when fewer people were speaking, you could swear it sounded just like a river.
It reminded you of the river that ran through the city, coursing in curves, flowing gently and delicately, with pretty lights reflecting on it. The music of a violin playing and tickling your ears.
There were, more or less, three hundred guests attending the gala tonight.
It changed nothing to the fact that you had never in your life before felt as alone as you did in that moment, surrounded by people you knew and by strangers, too, in a place that ought to be familiar but wasn’t really.
The sea of them continued to whisper and talk and laugh, the sound of it often punctuated with glasses clinking or chairs scraping on the old floor when people pushed themselves up or sat down. A group of four passed near you as they returned from outside, smelling faintly of cigarettes and winter. You recognized one of the four as the head curator of a museum in Italy, one that you had visited during your Master’s and that you had particularly liked. The man, older now, noticed you and stopped as the rest of his group continued toward their table, a little farther down the room.
“It’s an honor to be invited here tonight,” the man told you, and you had to look up so you could look him in the eyes, or rather, to pretend that you were still human. He shook your hand, but in the end held both your hands in his, squeezing them. “I remember when you were a student, coming to the museum every day… I knew then that you were special. Congratulations, dear.”
You offered him a smile and a thank you, doing your best to look like you meant it. You did mean it, only you couldn’t figure out if it was relevant. If he had truly believed that something set you apart from the masses years ago, wouldn’t he have told you then?
Why wait until now to do it?
The background noise changed when the crowd began to clap politely. You looked at the front of the room, where a small stage had been put in place for the night. It was nicely decorated with warm lighting and real flowers and plants. As you were sitting very close, you could smell them, fresh and sweet. The focus of the decor, however, was the few pieces from the Deities exhibition that had been brought here, into the museum’s atrium. There were three paintings. The first one, on the left, was Agatheia and her three children, depicting the demigoddess sitting in her lush garden, smiling as she was surrounded by Kyma, Prokopios, and Hyathos, who, however, was staring out at the horizon, not quite living in the present moment. It had always been one of your favorite pieces.
The second, on the right, was a large painting showing most of the ancient gods. The scene did not exist in the myths—the gods were never mentioned to have been at the same place all at once, as too many of them were enemies or rivals. At the very top of the frame was Minhas, god of the skies, inevitability, and mortality. He could be seen watching the other gods from his high viewpoint, observing all of them pensively.
Just below, Amaranthos and Perikles were looking down upon the chaos that they had stirred while fighting one another—the first had a sword made of obsidian and the other, a spear made of gold. Kyma, being taken away by Thoros, with Agatheia holding her daughter’s hand, looking like she was trying to get her daughter back from the King of the Underworld. However, Prokopios lay dead at their feet, his skin drained of color, his eyes open and rigid. Sophronia was alone, the goddess of flowers sitting on a rock, weaving a crown of roses. Her gaze, however, was turned to Agatheia. Some texts said that the two goddesses kept a secret friendship, and that it was Sophronia who gifted Agatheia the most beautiful flowers of her garden.
Beneios was there, not too far from Perikles, holding his dead sister’s body, her heart pierced by one of Perikles’ golden arrows. His expression could not be seen, but one could understand his pain and mourning in his posture and in the love with which he held his sister.
At the center of it all was Ismene, on her island, tall and radiant. She stood, towering over the god of light himself—Feliks was with her, on his knees as though he was seeking atonement, or simply begging his aunt for something. There were tears in his eyes and they resembled sun rays, illuminating his despondent expression.
Hyathos was with no one else. Unlike Sophronia, he wasn’t just alone—he was lonely, an arm outstretched, his fingertips caressed by the light spilling from Feliks’ tears. He stood, his ankles caressed by tall grass, his long, soft-brown hair floating in the wind. The expression on his face was complex, often named by art historians as one of the best portraits of its time. He was yearning for something and yet dreading it at once, nostalgic, bittersweet. The more one stared at him, the more emotions appeared—grief, fear, envy, anguish, curiosity. His eyes, it seemed, held whole entire worlds inside of them. You had written well over a hundred thousand words about this depiction of Hyathos alone, and it seemed like there was just as much to say about it still.
The last of the three paintings had been placed at the center. With no great surprise, it was The Cypress Tree, the most sought-after and cherished painting from the exhibition. Even from here, it seemed like you could feel the warmth emanating from it, from its lifelike radiance. It reminded you of the way the sun used to look—a debate that was still ongoing, as some people perceived a change in the color and aspect of sunlight while others did not. Scientists were studying the phenomenon but absolutely nothing hinted that something had changed in the atmosphere, the sky, or with the sun—the sun was the sun, as it had always been. Only, to you, and to some others, it looked different, in a way that could hardly be explained with words. It was in these moments that you envied painters. You thought that Arthur Calverley, who had so beautifully painted sunlight in The Cypress Tree, would have been able to convey this new luminescence with accuracy.
You watched as a woman made her way to the stage, stopping behind the reading stand, lowering the microphone until it was at a comfortable height for her. She seemed at ease in her professional-looking cocktail dress, gazing at the vast room with a smile on her face, looking amused.
The room fell silent almost instantly and all the heads turned in her direction, except for yours. Even as she began speaking and introducing herself as the Dean of the university that presented the Alden Breay Award. You had spoken with her a few times over the phone and again tonight, meeting her in the flesh for the first time. She was a hyper type of person, yet intelligent and witty. It showed as she spoke to the crowd, explaining how the award had come to exist.
You, however, were contemplating how it would be you, very soon, standing on that stage, giving your speech. In front of all of these people and a handful of cameras. Tonight’s ceremony was one of the most highly anticipated of the year, maybe especially since it also happened to be the day you launched the first three books on Cipherian. The first one was a dictionary, and the second was an analysis and explanation of the language’s complex grammar, including its even more obscure dialects.
The last book was the one you hated most. Or loved most. Or, somehow, both at once. It was the one you had begun to write before you had even processed the fact that you had suddenly acquired this language—the one you had so ardently wished to share with Hyunjin.
It was a huge book—a complete translation of the most important texts of the ancient myths, accompanied by comprehensive and detailed essays that you wrote, from the perspective of the only person on earth who could understand them completely. For now, at least, as you had no doubt that linguists and amateurs alike would soon know Cipherian as well as you did, or perhaps even better, rendering you useless once again. Some days, you couldn’t wait for it to happen, wanting nothing more than to be invisible and forgotten, knowing very well that it would leave yet another scar the day it would come true.
It was that book you were the most proud of. You would write other books like it—had already started to do so—with more texts and more translations. Now that you knew the language they were written in, the ancient myths were deeper, more textured. More real, too, somehow.
You did not pay much attention to the Dean as she spoke, instead you focused on the rest of the room, maybe trying to get used to the sight of all these people.
Jisung must have sensed your unease because he reached for your hand under the round table, squeezing it in his. He was most likely just as nervous as you were, considering how clammy his skin was. Yet you appreciated the gesture, turning to him with a joyless smile, to which he responded with an equally flat one. He looked especially nice tonight with his hair combed to the side and a fancy navy-colored suit. He was sitting between you and Seungmin, who also looked especially dapper in a charcoal outfit.
You shared your table, also, with the staff from the museum. Minji sat across from you, obviously agitated but in a giddy kind of way, almost childish. You envied her—she was, a little, the girl you wished you had been at her age. But unlike Minji, you had been born lonely, and you could not change that. When Mrs. Yoo noticed that you were looking in her direction, she mouthed a gentle It’ll be alright at you, making you wonder if it was very apparent that you felt like you were about to throw up.
“Deep breaths,” Jisung whispered into your ear. He had sprayed a little too much cologne tonight, but its vivid scent served as an anchor.
Deep breaths. Easier said than done.
You put a hand over your chest in a lame attempt at calming down. You could feel your pulse through your ribcage, crazed and unsteady.
Your fingers ran into something cool and you wrapped your hand around it, suddenly remembering the existence of the necklace hanging around your neck.
A few hours ago, as you were getting ready for tonight, Jisung entered your hotel room with a small box. It’s for you, he said, handing it over. A gift. And he had never really been the one to buy gifts, so it was suspicious. The gift turned out to be an absolutely stunning yet delicate white gold chain with a small pendant. The pendant was a green garnet whose deep shade of viridian fascinated anybody who looked at it. It was reminiscent of the ocean and a forest at once, and everything in between.
There’s no way you bought this, you told Jisung. Your reasoning was simple—he didn’t buy gifts, and if he was going to buy gifts, they wouldn’t be as nice as this necklace. Only someone with refined taste would pick this over other necklaces. And, lastly, there was no way in hell he could afford it, even if you paid him well. You chose this necklace?
The thing with Jisung is that he is a terrible liar. It was actually that very fact that led to the demise of your situationship. When you clearly began showing signs of the Catching Feelings disease, he recoiled immediately and was not inconspicuous about it, no matter how hard he tried. And you knew he tried just so he wouldn’t hurt you. And it was such a stupid thing to do, yet everyone did it—there was no way one could fully protect another from the truth. Nothing could soften the blow—it could only be delayed.
Of course I chose it. But when he saw in your eyes that you didn’t believe him, Jisung added, The lady at the store helped me. Which made total sense, and you probably would have believed him if you didn’t suspect this necklace to be custom-made and worth several thousand dollars.
You wondered if maybe Jisung needed to get laid. After all, he had left this girl he had started seeing after you. He said things didn’t work out. He had been with her for less than a month, even less time than he had spent fooling around with you. After that had been the beginning of the chaos, and he had started following you anywhere—you were not aware of him seeing girls. So you figured that maybe he was hoping you would fuck him in exchange for this insanely expensive necklace.
Thing is, you could be convinced. Maybe you would suck his cock after the gala, in the car on your way back to the hotel suite that had been offered to you since it was closer to the museum than your apartment was. You knew it made him crazy when you looked him in the eyes as he spilled himself into your mouth. After that, you could let him fuck you in the hotel room, on the couch maybe, or against a wall. Jisung fucked desperately, always. You used to like it because you had believed he was desperate for you. You had been a fool, though.
You did not love him. There had been a time when you thought you loved Jisung. But that was before you knew what love was really like.
You nervously fidgeted with the necklace, fully aware that daydreaming about letting your almost-ex hit it just to feel something was not the best coping mechanism.
On stage, the Dean had just spoken your name, inviting you to join her so she could officially hand you the award you had been granted. Your heart jumped in your chest and it felt like it came to a stop, much like your breathing, or the flow of time. For a brief moment, silence reigned in the atrium.
Your gaze flew upwards, lingering on the large skylight that the ceiling was made of. The sky was dark and raindrops rolled down the curved glass.
The thing with solitude is it doesn’t matter if you’ve had it for a long time or not, if you expected it or not—it is always quiet and furtive and violent. And it hit you exactly at that moment. The magnitude of your loneliness. The weight of it—crushing and unforgiving. Maybe you had known for a while but hadn’t been brave enough to admit it to yourself.
You would never be truly happy again. Not without Hyunjin.
You had tasted what genuine contentment was like, you had known what true love felt like, and now everything was bland compared to it. There was no point in chasing a similar feeling because it wouldn’t exist, not without him. There would be days when you would feel joy but you would never be really happy. Something would always be lacking in your life, lacking from you—he had left, it felt like, thousands of little voids in your body and your soul.
You did not want the award. You never asked for it. You let Seungmin and Jisung convince you that you should take it, if only for the monetary prize that would be split between you and the museum. You didn’t need money. You did not want it.
The person you wanted to share all of this with was gone.
A comforting hand pressed itself in between your shoulder blades—Jisung gave you a gentle nudge as a reminder that you had to stand up.
Your legs were weak, trembling yet stiff, but you managed to push yourself up, a little too aware that all the heads were turned toward you, now. As soon as you stood straight, the entire room erupted in enthusiastic applause, the sound of it echoing on the walls, made even louder by the acoustics of the room. You smoothed out your pretty ball gown before closing your hands into fists, your fingernails digging into your palm, as Jisung stood after you, now pressing his hand at the small of your back to invite you to come with him. He took his role of security guard very seriously, but then he had also taken himself very seriously when he had been head of security here, so it shouldn’t surprise you.
“Let’s go now,” you heard him mutter as he guided you toward the front of the room, regularly looking around as if he was fully expecting doom to fall upon you. He kept you close. The plan was that he would wait by the stage while you gave your speech, but now you found yourself wishing he would climb up there with you just so you wouldn’t be alone.
Then you remembered the rift between alone and lonely.
He did help you up the steps though, holding your hand until the last second and giving it a squeeze before releasing you. The spotlights were warm and blinded you enough that you could barely see more than a few tables away—you couldn’t even make out the far end of the atrium, for which you were grateful. You could only imagine it would be easier to read your speech.
The Dean welcomed you warmly, introducing you once again into the microphone while an assistant was bringing the trophy. It was smaller than you expected it to be, yet no less beautiful—made of glass, gold and bronze, it depicted a woman, Alden Breay’s wife, sitting at a desk and seemingly writing. It was his wife’s essay on geopolitics that had inspired him the award in the first place, because, at the time, institutions wanted nothing to do with an essay on politics written by a woman. Breay had to claim the essay as his for it to see the light of day. He had sworn that worthy scholars should never go unheard and ignored again.
You were handed your trophy, which was heavier than it seemed and cool to the touch. You looked at it for a few seconds while the applause gained in volume and ardor. A nervous smile painted itself on your lips, and you took a moment to observe the trophy again, on which your name had been engraved, followed by for her immense contribution to the world of history, linguistics, and art, which changed the world.
You put the trophy down, causing the applause to slowly come to a stop, but not before you heard a few familiar voices calling your name—Minji and Mrs. Yoo, but also your mother, your sister, and your uncle, who had traveled for hours just to be here tonight. Tears welled up in your eyes while the importance of the moment was trying to make its way in the deepest corners of your mind.
From his spot, Jisung handed you the two sheets on which you had printed your speech—it had taken many hours to settle on a final version, and many people had helped. You unfolded it with shaking hands, staring at the words on the first sheet, reading the first sentence. Thank you for being here tonight. It is an honor to stand before you to accept this award.
Not inaccurate or anything, and yet.
Almost painfully, you lifted your head, really looking at the room. Now that your eyes had adjusted to the brightness of the lights, you could see better, although the faces remained unreadable. There were so many people. You gave lectures sometimes or participated in various speaking engagements, but never in front of a crowd like this. You hadn’t even been this nervous during your PhD presentation.
You cleared your throat, reporting your attention to the sheets you were holding. You suddenly felt the urge to look at something familiar, at something comforting—and since the thing you desired most was not available, you turned around, glancing at the paintings behind you. The gods, the gods that you understood better now. You allowed your gaze to linger on Feliks underneath his cypress tree, and then on Hyathos and his heavy expression, and the rest of them. To you, they had become so real that it was hard to distinguish fiction from truth, but you had no desire to perceive reality anyway.
The room fell quiet—a silence so thick you could almost feel it on your skin as it reached you. You inhaled it when you took a deep breath to ready yourself, but as you opened your mouth to begin reading your speech, something shifted within you. It seemed like those words on this piece of paper—words that you had composed, typed, and printed yourself—were no longer accurate.
You folded the sheets again, trying very hard to conceal the uncontrollable shaking of your hands. You remembered exactly at that moment the way it used to feel when you and Hyunjin would exchange emails back and forth, writing entire essays about the myths just for each other. How easy it had been with him—this, and everything else. There was so much that you wished you could talk about with him now that you truly understood the myths.
At the beginning of your essay book, one could read, To you who made me love these stories more than I ever did - each and every one of these words is for you.
Maybe it did not matter. Whether he loved you or not. Because you loved him, and nothing could ever change that about you. And you loved that part of yourself, the part that had fallen in love with this honeyed-skin stranger. You loved the part of yourself that had allowed it to happen, that had gone with him for dinner the very night you met him. So the fact that he didn’t love you as much as you loved him only mattered in the sense that you were alone and would always be, but this love would always have a home in your heart.
“Uh…” You began, recoiling slightly when a slight screech echoed after your voice. You pulled away a little, making sure to speak a few inches farther so the microphone would work well. “I, uh, I spent hours writing this speech, but… But there is more I want to say. And of course, I want to say thank you to those who decided I deserve this award. Never in my life did I imagine something like this would happen to me. So I’m grateful, I really am. And yet—we all know how I came to make the discoveries I made, and so much of it relies on luck that I almost refused the award.”
That declaration was punctuated by murmurs across the room. The more you spoke, the easier you could breathe, it felt like.
You went on. “But language… Language brings people together. To me, instead of being a barrier, it is a gate, an entrance into another culture. I always felt this way, even before Cipherian was Cipherian, back when we only knew a few words of it. And so I think this is why I’m here tonight—apart from the fact that I was persuaded by people close to me—because I believe in the importance of this discovery, regardless of my actual involvement in it. I want to keep writing about it. I don’t think I will have enough of my life to say everything there is to say about the beauty and the intricacy of it.
“You know how they say that learning a language changes you, alters your brain, the way it works, and the way it processes information. I’ve always known that to be true, but it was never as real as the day I sat down to read every word of the myths we had not yet been able to understand. I read about arra, a concept that doesn’t quite exist in our modern world. The authors of the myths thought that love came from light—among other sources, because it could also come from blood, or the ocean—and that it was visible to the naked eye. Love. Arra is what lights up someone’s eyes when they see their soulmate. But even soulmate isn’t quite that in Cipherian. The exact translation would be intended soul, as in, there is only one soul we are meant to bond with. To these people, arra could be seen on someone. And that changed me.”
At this, the crowd’s whispers grew a tad louder, but the voices were appreciative, impressed, even.
“I remember it. Arra. I remember when it once illuminated my eyes, and now that the light went out, I see the world a few shades darker, but at least I have a word that explains the phenomenon.” You paused then, the shaking of your hands calming down only for you to begin feeling it in your throat. “But that’s not all. Cipherian opens a brand new perspective on the concept of legacy. To them, it’s called syn hsar avīmhyphaei. Essentially, the literal translation of that is continuity. Because, what is legacy for us? Let’s put it simply—it is what we leave behind after we’re gone, which is not a concept that can be applied to the gods, can it? How could immortal beings perceive legacy the same way we do if they never cease to exist? Hsar means circle in Cipherian. Syn hsar avīmhyphaei is the circle that continues. The gods’ legacy is what always was and what always will be.
“We do not know well the authors of the myths and even less those whose stories, written in the even more obscure language of the gods, inspired them. But whoever they were had a sensitive and beautiful vision of life, an understanding of it that our brains can barely comprehend.
“So, I think, this is why I’m here tonight. I think it’s the only way I could make sense of this award—because I want people to read those books. I want people to open their minds to this new perspective on life, which I think changes us for the better. It rewires our brains and our hearts and forces them open in a painless, loving way.
“Above all… I wish for people to come together. Exchange, debate, discuss, learn. Love. There is nothing that can be compared to it—the act of bonding with someone because of a shared passion, or a common goal. Maybe the authors took themselves for gods—maybe that was what they wanted us to believe, that their legacy did not follow the rules of time, that it had no beginning and no end. And I think they were right. Let the myths and Cipherian be the bridge that brings people together. Together, let’s create a new and more beautiful legacy.”
The applause that followed your speech deafened you momentarily, but it wasn’t because of its volume per se, it was because, for those few seconds, nothing else existed, not even you. Your soul left your body for a short moment while you were recovering from the immense stress of speaking in front of such a crowd. The return was brutal—the spotlights, it seemed, were warmer than ever, and your dress felt awfully light all of a sudden, as though it did not cover enough skin.
You reached for your trophy and let Jisung escort you back to your table, except everyone on the way there stopped you to congratulate you or shake your hand. Assistants were, however, asking attendees to stand while they cleared some space, as the next part of the gala would be the core party where people could dance and drink, and have dessert after the dinner earlier.
You let Minji take you to a corner to touch up your eye makeup. She did so in silence with a concerned look on her face, a look that you knew very well by now. You hadn’t quite descended from the high of the speech—in fact, you couldn’t remember any of it, not even a sentence—but focusing on Minji’s strange behavior certainly felt like a gentle slap back to reality.
“What’s going on?” you questioned as she handed you your lipstick, which had a nice, creamy peach color. You had too much money now, more than you wanted, so you bought things that cost a ridiculous price. This lipstick was one of these things. “Did I make a fool of myself?” Your heart sank in your chest.
Minji shook her head vehemently. “No, god, no!” she assured, looking properly shocked. “On the contrary—it was great. You were great. You didn’t even look nervous.” She waited until you had reapplied the lipstick and put it back into her purse. “I’m just really proud of you.”
You knew there was more to Minji’s sudden mood shift so you didn’t believe her made-up excuse. You did trust her, though—you could only imagine that she was withholding information from you because she thought it was the absolute best thing to do at this moment. Maybe it had something to do with the annoying journalists from the red carpet—because there had been a red carpet even though you insisted it was absolutely not necessary.
Have you guys been dating for a long time? Asked about you and Jisung, because he was effectively your date for the night—as your personal security, of course.
I love your dress! Who designed it? The dress was nice and you had found it at a luxury shop. A few haute couture designers had approached you, offering to design you a dress for tonight’s event, but you had politely declined.
With which of the gods would you most want to go on a date? A question you had assumed was some sort of bait, considering you had been ridiculed during your university years when you admitted having a crush on one of them. The way a girl has a crush on a guy that doesn’t exist, but it hadn’t stopped the others from giggling not just behind your back, but right at your face.
Most of these so-called journalists had requested a camera interview with you, and Seungmin had politely let them know there would be no such thing tonight.
You didn’t need media exposure. Cipherian, the myths, and even your essays were all over the news and the internet.
“Thank you,” you finally told Minji, making yourself smile. “I owe you and the others a lot.”
“No need to be humble tonight,” she reminded you playfully. “How about I take your trophy upstairs to your office? Seems inconvenient to carry around.”
It was excessively heavy indeed, but now that Minji was offering, what you really wanted was to go with her. Just to be away from all of these people for five minutes. Or maybe twenty.
Or maybe an hour.
“I’ll go with,” you said. You figured you ought to give her a little excuse just so she wouldn’t suspect anything. “There’s something I wanted to check anyway.”
A hand pressed itself on your back, and you recognized Jisung. “Nope, no work tonight.” He had a faint smile on his face when you turned to him. “Besides, you need to eat.”
Jisung took his hand in yours, guiding you away from Minji and toward the tables covered in food at the other end of the room. Since the beginning of the night, it was more of the same—everybody who saw you waved at you or gave you a solemn nod, and you did your best to give the appropriate response, but your throat was shut tight and you just felt weird. Like you expected more from tonight, or perhaps less, in a strange way.
Once you made it to the food, Jisung asked for a few random items on the table, and the server carefully put everything on a plate. “With two forks, please,” Jisung added. “Thank you.”
You also offered the server a smile, just so people would at least believe you weren’t completely miserable. Jisung once again took your hand, so you could go sit somewhere to eat. You weren’t hungry, but you’d eat a few bites just to shut him up—or rather, just so he wouldn’t worry about you too much.
As you walked away, though, you caught sight of the plaque with the caterer’s name on it. It was a bakery somewhere in town, with a very funny name. Familiar in an excessively bittersweet way.
“BabyBread,” Jisung read on the plaque, stopping in his tracks and following your gaze. He chuckled. “That’s a weird business name. But kinda funny, isn’t it?” When he saw that you weren’t responding, he went on, “Do you know this place? The pastries look delicious.”
Did you know this place? Yes. But you hadn’t been inside the bakery per se. Hyunjin, however, intended to take you there for dessert after your first dinner together. Your first date, for all intents and purposes. Yet you yearned for it, for a memory that didn’t exist. You had never tasted the food made over there because instead, you and Hyunjin slow-danced outside. And it changed your life. And it changed you.
“Thank you sir,” the caterer employee retorted with a smile. “Freshly baked today by yours truly.”
“Oh, are you the owner of the bakery?” Jisung asked, making small talk with this stranger. “The name really is something.”
“It’s an inside joke, but yeah, it’s me.” The young man offered both of you a wide, heartfelt smile. He turned to you. “Miss, I want to extend my congratulations on your achievement. I can’t wait to buy your books and read them.”
Two things went through your mind at that moment—the first was that you had a box with copies of the books upstairs and that you would have someone give them to him. The second was that Hyunjin, that first night, had said he knew the owner.
“Please speak to my assistant,” you told him. “Tell her I want you to have the books—I have some in my office.” Before he could refuse though, you continued. “Sir, excuse me, but… There is someone I know, a friend, with whom I almost visited your bakery once.” It was a little more than a year ago—time flew a little too fast to your taste. “He said he knows you.”
The man’s eyebrows raised in a pleasantly surprised expression. “Did he?” His smile softened. “Who is that friend we have in common, then? He never told me he knew THE woman who deciphered the gods’ language!”
Jisung tugged at your arm but you let go of his hand. You closed in the distance between you and the table—the closer to it you got, the more you could smell the sweet scents emanating from it.
“His name is Hyunjin. Hwang Hyunjin.” Simply uttering his name out loud like this felt like a free fall, and there was nothing you could anchor yourself to.
The young man squinted for a couple of seconds and he tilted his head to the side, just slightly. “Yes, Mr. Hyunjin. We became acquainted when I noticed it was him in a clothing ad across the street…” He let out a soft laugh but the more he spoke, the colder your heart felt. “He used to visit my bakery quite often.”
You swore you could hear Jisung’s impatience and unease as he stood a little behind you. But this baker was the closest thing you had to Hyunjin in months, even though he was just someone who knew him.
“He left the city,” you responded, your voice cracking unexpectedly. You cleared your throat, feeling the familiar prick of tears in your eyes.
The man frowned. “Are you sure, miss?”
Out of habit, you glanced at Jisung, who had an unreadable expression on his face, but was still dutifully holding the plate of pastries with the two forks on it. For an instant, he seemed puzzled, and then forced himself to look neutral again.
“Y-Yes,” you replied, turning to the baker again.
He nodded slowly before shrugging. “I could swear I saw him earlier.” He gestured vaguely at the room behind you. “Must have been a trick of the light.”
The free fall came to an abrupt stop when you landed in a pool of ice-cold water, then sank to the bottom of it, only to end your journey in lava. Too thick to move and too hot to breathe. Almost with fear, you turned around, looking at the ball taking place in the atrium.
“Everyone looks so dapper and fancy tonight,” the man went on with a light tone—maybe he had seen something in your eyes. Maybe, for an instant, you had let your sorrow shine through them. “Probably got confused with someone else.”
Except there was one thing you were sure of, and it was that nobody who had a functional pair of eyes could ever confuse Hyunjin for somebody else. He looked too out of this world for that.
You froze in place, scanning the faces before you, looking for the one you had been so adamantly yearning for. Could it really be? No, it couldn’t, right?
Jisung intertwined his arm with yours again before you could sink any deeper. “We can eat later. Let’s dance. I like this song.”
The song had just begun. Jisung had never been one to dance, not like that. It was a slow-paced classical piece, one that you had never heard before, yet it sounded both nostalgic and sad.
He left the plate on the nearest table and dragged you to the dance floor under the gazes of several people. You wanted to cry. You wanted to leave. You did not want to dance, but when Jisung put his hands on your waist, you let him. He was looking at you gravely, almost like he was sorry that it was with him you were dancing and not somebody else.
You loved him. Hyunjin. It had been foolish to love him but it was not the sort of thing one could control. You knew nothing about him except, you knew his soul. It felt like that. You didn’t know about his family—he avoided the topic always—and you didn’t know about his childhood either, but you knew about his deepest and darkest feelings. And it had been enough to make you fall in love with him.
And now you saw him in everything.
You saw him in the river coursing through the city. You saw him in the cold nights and warm afternoons. You saw him in the strangeness of the world and in its beauty, too. He had become a part of you and that could never be undone, not even after he left. He had become a phantom limb, but the space he occupied in your heart had remained unchanged. You felt him in everything. You felt him in the smoothest silk of fancy hotel room robes. You felt him in the most poignant music, whether it was piano, harp, or cello. You felt him in the emptiness of your bed. In the emptiness of your cunt, and the one of your heart, too.
Jisung led the dance, holding you firmly as he did his best to sway beautifully among the other dancers. Your gaze lingered at many places as you danced—Jisung, the peculiar expression on his face as he held your waist as though he was running out of time. The skylight, displaying nothing but darkness and raindrops. The walls, displaying some of the most significant art the world had ever come to see. The crowd, some of them dancing to the rhythm of the sorrowful melody playing in the room. Others stood around and watched those who danced while drinking champagne. It made you crave more of it. Champagne, or something stronger.
You saw Hyunjin in everything. You saw the color of his eyes in a bottle of luxury cognac, you saw the color of his skin in a glass of expensive white wine, or in a jar of honey left by a sunny window.
You saw Hyunjin in the language of the gods. In the deep and intricate way the myths illustrated love and yearning. You saw Hyunjin in the madness that was taking over you—the one the gods called ceinōahk, a word whose literal translation was everyday love. The concept would be difficult to explain, but essentially, it describes a love that is as natural as breathing, cooking food, or looking at the sky. Actions done on a daily basis, out of need for survival or just because they make life better and are a part of it. You saw him in other words or in grammar rules. You saw him in the commas and other symbols that adorned the ancient texts, like the one you had named the ōleiandyi, for oleanders were the inspiration behind it. A straight line ending in what looked like a star but was a flower with five petals. It took you a lot of practice to get it right because of the specific shape of oleander petals.
The oleandi’s line would be traced below a series of words that needed to be insisted on, with the flower placed at the end to further emphasize the importance of the sentence. It felt as though every word he had ever spoken to you ought to be adorned with the symbol.
Your mind was so obsessed, so broken, so consumed by him, that you even saw him here, tonight, standing across the room, his gaze on you. Staring at you as if he had never left. Like he had been gone for two or three lifetimes.
You had known it before, but you were certain now—you would love him even if it annihilated you molecule by molecule. It was not something you could control and yet it felt like a choice, a conscious decision. You loved Hyunjin, and for as long as your heart would beat and perhaps even after, you would continue to love him.
Even if it killed you. Even if it kept you alive in the most unfair of worlds, which was to say, a world without him.
Bet she sucked her way through that PhD. Sloppy.
The voice that echoed in Hyunjin’s head was so loud and invasive that it might as well have been his own, only it wasn’t. It was plaguing his thoughts the way his father used to. Like poison. Like a nightmare one cannot wake up from.
Like a smear of blood on the cuff of a white button-down.
It had dried already. The blood. Much like the voice haunting his mind, it did not belong to Hyunjin, and it would not go away, no matter how hard he scrubbed or how much handsoap he poured onto it. He knew he wasn’t supposed to get water on it because it was silk, but he needed it gone.
Girls like her always act like they’re stuck-up nerds but next thing you know, they’re giving you a handjob in the bathroom at some wine tasting thing and ask you to finish on their tits.
Hyunjin only wanted to get some fresh air. He could never have predicted he would run into these pigs, men he had never even seen before.
He might have taken it as a sign that he shouldn’t have come here at all. Seungmin had given him ample amounts of warnings. “Are you sure about this?” his former manager had asked him when Hyunjin gave him the necklace that he got for you. “What am I supposed to tell her?”
“Just don’t tell her it’s from me. You can tell her it’s from you, or Han, or a fan. I want her to have it. I’ll be there, but I’m not sure I’ll… talk to her.”
Nobody else in the world knew how much danger you were in. He had tried to warn Han Jisung. He had begged him to keep you safe, but what could possibly protect you from the wrath of the cruelest gods?
He would see you on the news sometimes, or on a documentary series. Each discovery, each translation was a new window for mankind to look into another world. He knew you were drawing a lot of attention to yourself with your work. From mortals. From gods.
He knew he was making it worse, too. Hyunjin did his best to avoid you and thoughts of you, but that was like asking an irredeemable heroin addict to stop thinking about his vice.
They would kill you for it. They would kill you for understanding them, for understanding life the way they did. They would kill you to punish him for falling in love with you.
Hyunjin knew he took a risk by coming here tonight but he told himself he would stay away. That he would watch you being crowned with the award, being recognized by your peers, and that he would leave after. He knew what he had to do. Maybe he had known before, but it had all appeared clearly to him when he learned about your car “accident” a few weeks ago.
His father had called him selfish many times and it had taken all this time for him to realize he had been right all along. Weak, selfish, and self-absorbed. He should not have asked you to dinner that day at the museum. He should have walked out of there as soon as you made his heart jump in his chest. He should have run away when your words made his soul turn from a dull monochrome shade to vibrant with color.
There had been something in your eyes. And it was still there tonight. It was difficult to explain it with words—perhaps you, who possessed the language he had once known but had been taken away from him, would know how to describe it. It was as though you were begging to be loved. Please love me, your eyes said. But stay away.
He was running out of time. To love you. To save you. To make things right. But he was selfish, which meant he was here tonight so he could love you one last time.
She probably rode a dick for that award too.
Or took it in the ass.
I know a guy who can get us into the afterparty.
How about we go say hi and maybe get a few drinks in her?
Hyunjin only stepped outside for one minute because the sight of you in that green tulle dress overwhelmed him. It had been so long since he saw you, since he was in the same room as you, breathed the same air as you—he could only take so much of it at once.
There had been a few other guests scattered around the stairs leading to the front entrance. Hyunjin chose a spot he thought would be the most peaceful, but his attention immediately turned to the three nearest men when he understood that you had gone to university with one of them. They were drunk, meaning the conversation was not happening at a quiet volume.
And they were talking about you.
Hyunjin had never been intimate with rage. It was the very reason why his father hated him. Amaranthos had always wished to witness his middle child become more like himself—ruthless, filled with fury, and thirsty for violence and disorder. Hyunjin, up until now, had always been the exact opposite of all these things. He had no wish to get involved in his father’s wars because he had no bias in them. He had no claims in them. To Hyunjin, all of it had always been so futile—why fight over a territory or an ideal?
It had never been important enough for him. Not those wars, not any other, not anything.
And then he met you.
It was ironic, almost comical. As he felt more and more of his divine essence dissipating, Hyunjin began to display, finally, some of the qualities his father had wanted to see in him for so long.
He rinsed the soap off for the third time, examining the cuff of his shirt under the ceiling light. The blood was still there. Paler, but there nonetheless.
Hyunjin could tell that it was not just the free alcohol served at the award ceremony that made these men speak the way they did. It wasn’t even just lust or jealousy, although it was also that. The one who studied with you, he could tell, envied your success and resented you for it at the same time. Because you were better than he would ever be. And maybe he felt some sort of guilt for letting you give him a handjob in some bathroom at a wine tasting event and treating you like a disposable fleshlight.
Like a shooting star.
Everyone gets tired of me, Hyunjin. I’m just a shooting star.
He heard his father in these men. His cruelty. His impudence. Like poison. Like a nightmare. Like a stain of blood on white silk. He would recognize it anywhere—the corruption, the rot, now seeping through these mortals. Their impulses required so little divine intervention, but it was there. Their minds were too simple to fight their primal urges anyway. The kind of men who were just a little too eager to stick their cocks into something warm. Many gods were like this, too.
When you get tired of me, Hyunjin, will you be gentle with me?
Hyunjin never had to use violence before. He witnessed it many times, he felt it, and he hated it. He was the victim of it often. But it was the first time he tried it with his own hands. His own fists. Grabbing this bastard by the collar of his shirt and slamming him into the pillar behind him, realizing that the hatred he had for this guy extended to himself.
Smashing his face with his fist. One time, two times. Getting hit in return but not the pain that should have come with it. Maybe because he still had some immortality to him, or because he could not let these assholes defile your name like this and not react. Maybe this was his father taunting him—maybe he never meant to send them after you. Perhaps Amaranthos was just reveling in seeing his son’s facade break.
He was stronger than he thought he was. It only took a few punches until the man fell to his knees, mostly knocked out, but with still enough stamina to call Hyunjin a few nasty names. He was bleeding a lot from his nose and his lip was cut open. One of the other two just fled—the last one stared at the scene, frozen, apparently unable to react. Maybe he was trying to decide if it was worth risking getting his nose broken to show his loyalty to his friend.
Hyunjin did not care. He let go of the guy’s collar. He was bleeding all over his sleeve anyway. He backed up. The guy spat at his feet but ultimately just rested his head and stared at Hyunjin with a complicated emotion in his eyes. Guilt. Hatred. Shame. Ecstasy. It shone underneath the rest the same way obsidian reflected moonlight. It gave Hyunjin chills—he let two security guards take him away just so he wouldn’t have to look at the man anymore. And at the poison in his eyes.
Hyunjin avoided the worst of the commotion by bribing the head of security. The museum had hired an outside firm, so he was not familiar with anyone working at the doors tonight. It cost him all the cash he had in his wallet—and it was a lot—but he didn’t care.
When you get tired of me, Hyunjin, will you be gentle with me?
He could not wash the blood off his shirt.
Giving up, Hyunjin used a paper towel to dry himself as best he could, daring a glance towards the mirror in front of him. He barely recognized the reflection staring back. A man in a velvet tuxedo. A man stuck between two worlds, a prisoner of his own longing. With someone else’s blood on his sleeve and shadows in his eyes. It wasn’t Hyathos that he was seeing.
It was Hyunjin—in his most broken, human form.
He felt so small then, alone in this bathroom. Like the weight of the entire world was crushing him. Only, he had never been much more than that. Whatever this was. This was the most he’d ever be—a man who loved you and who had once been loved by you, too.
He took a deep breath, exhaling in a long sigh that left a smudge of condensation on the mirror, blurring his face. The air had become too heavy in here, too thick, much like the silence stuffing the room. He couldn’t hide in here forever anyway, could he? He knew that security rounds were done every ten minutes or so, which meant he had very little time to get out.
The hallway was a little less quiet—the party permeated through the floor here, as though it filtered between the old wooden planks. He wasn’t technically allowed here because it was the administrative wing on the second floor. Hyunjin just did not think it would have been a good idea to wash blood off his hands and shirt in the public bathroom downstairs, so he snuck up here. He knew this hallway because it’s where you brought him that first night. After dinner and slow-dancing in the park. After showing him the hidden painting.
He passed the door to your office, remembering how it felt to hold you and kiss you there. The floor creaked beneath him, but the sound of you in his mind, moaning so prettily in his ear, was louder. Louder than the other voices, too, the cruel ones.
Nothing mattered as much as you did.
And yet Hyunjin slowed down when he walked past the large window just before the staircase. It was so wide that it spanned nearly the entire wall. When he stood at the largest frame in its center, it was all he could see.
And, now, the night took up all of the space within it.
This window should have a similar view to the one in your office, meaning he should be able to see the park and the tree under which you sometimes sat. Only, it seemed like that part of the neighborhood had a power outage. Everything was dark and still. It was a strange sensation—Hyunjin knew it was there. The street below, the park across, the tree, the other museum wings. But the night had swallowed all of it.
His heart tightened in his chest—he had to hold onto the nearest window frame for a few seconds, his head spinning. He almost lost his balance. Almost.
He remembered his orchard.
He had built it, all of it, from nothing. Selecting only the best seeds and planting them with care. The trees grew in the fertile soil between the ocean and a pine grove, and so the fruit carried the taste of the land it grew on. Iodine. Timber. Sunlight. His father tried to convince him to tear down the pine grove so he could plant more trees and harvest more fruit. Hyunjin, mainly, grew peaches, but also apples and plums. He even had a few cherry trees, whose pretty blooms, in the spring, always moved him. He liked the trees he had, but he did not need more. He was content with his orchard. Satisfied. The fruit was juicy and sweet and fragrant.
His father always wanted more. He always wanted him to want more.
Hyunjin used to spend a lot of time there, alone, walking barefoot in the earth or the high grass, tending to his trees. Sometimes, he would venture into the pine grove. And sometimes—especially towards the end, before his father sent him here—he would go beyond the pine grove.
The pine trees were tall and ancient, older than time itself. They swayed gently in the wind, so he took his time, admiring the view on his way, walking the narrow path leading to the other side, stopping only when he reached it. He could not have gone any further anyway because that was also where the land stopped.
It did so dramatically—with a high, steep cliff, overlooking the ocean below. The perfect diving spot.
Hyathos was a demigod. He could not die, as in, death always evaded him or he always evaded death. But he would dive into the restless waters, over and over, as though colossal waves weren’t crashing onto the cliffside. As forceful as it was mesmerizing, the ocean broke onto the sharp rocks. The foam darkened their ochre-colored surface, drying only when the sun would kiss them come sunrise.
Hyathos was a demigod. Patron of desire, of disasters, and fruit trees. He had been loved by light itself, once, but not enough to be its sole craving. It was during one of his dives that he understood that being the god of desire did not mean he was meant to be desired more than anybody else—god or mortal alike. It meant he was more intimate with desire. It meant he felt it deeper and stronger and harder.
Hyathos could not die. But sometimes, as his immortal body hit the water, he hoped he would. He had been interested in mortals before, but it was around this time that he became fascinated by them, visiting witches and warlocks to inquire about the mortal world and the people who inhabited it. What they did. What kind of things they liked.
Their purpose.
Hyunjin’s fingers found the latch of the window in front of him. He could not take his eyes off the darkness below. Truth be told, he did not miss his life as a god, nor did he miss the dominion over which his father ruled, as it never truly felt like home. However, he did miss his orchard a little.
And this window reminded him an awful lot of staring down at the sea from the top of the cliff on a moonless night.
Hyunjin tested the latch—his fingers acted before his mind could think. He wondered what would happen if he jumped. If it would feel the way it used to feel when he dove into the ocean. He wondered if he would die. Could he die, yet? Was Minhas already watching him?
It made no difference. Whether he was watching or not. The latch did not move when Hyunjin tried it. Of course not—it was sealed.
He knew temptation invaded his mind out of fear. Or rather, grief.
He could, maybe, force this safety latch open.
Or he could go back downstairs and watch you in your beautiful dress. He could face you one last time. And if you let him, maybe, hold you again. Just tonight.
Hyunjin. I’m just a shooting star.
This whole time, you had it all wrong. It was he who was the shooting star, and you were the night sky, vast and deep and complex and beautiful. And he would endure all the anguish in all the universes if it meant he could love you in just one of them, just for a little while.
Hyunjin adjusted his bowtie, using his reflection in the window in front of him before making his way downstairs again, searching for you. Always you.
He saw it in your eyes when your gaze met his. Arra. Maybe it had been there since the beginning. He thought so.
Hyunjin felt it in his chest when your gaze met his. Belonging.
It had been there since the beginning.
Upon seeing Hyunjin, your body came to a halt, Jisung crashing into you. You almost toppled over but caught your balance at the last second, which could be classified as a miracle considering how you didn’t even feel your body. Or perhaps you felt it too much, kind of in the same way severe burns affect someone. As in, those burns go through the skin and damage the nerve endings, cutting all sensation. Protecting one from the pain.
It was what you were thinking of as you stood there, staring at the other side of the large room. That something within you was trying to shield you from whatever consequences would arise following this phenomenon.
Because either he wasn’t actually here, or this was somehow a hallucination. You could believe that—you could see how longing for him too much had just caused your brain to produce this illusion, making him appear out of the blue, perhaps as an attempt to soothe this visceral need that you felt. Your mind had produced an image of him. A wraith. Not real, no matter how tangible he looked.
Or he was actually here. Standing there, motionless, as handsome as ever, wearing a black velvet tux, his complex eyes riveted on you. But he had been there before, and then he had left without a word. So perhaps his coming back meant nothing.
Maybe he was here and he would just leave again.
It wasn’t burn injuries you thought about when he moved—Hyunjin, or the mirage of him, stood straight, walking slowly and steadily towards you. Something else came to your mind—it was as though each one of his steps was a detonation in your chest, instead this time there was no destruction. It was as though he was holding your heart in his hand and every inch of distance he closed between you was another not-so-gentle squeeze on it, forcing you back to life, breathing air into your lungs, allowing blood to course through your veins again. He was here. No illusion could have such an effect on you—only the real Hyunjin could find a way to your soul, bypassing any and all defenses on his way. He was the only thing you would ever let anywhere near your heart, even if it killed you.
He was standing right in front of you before you knew it, bringing with him his elaborate scent, enveloping you in it. Woody petrichor, with amber and floral undertones that made him smell like the exact moment when the sun pierced through stormy clouds.
It really was him. His not-brown eyes, something darker, something brighter. Heavy with a burden that could not be expressed with words. His pomegranate lips, his honey skin, his delicate yet violently beautiful traits, framed by his silky dark hair. Its shade of black was so rich it was reminiscent of a night sky that had northern lights dancing in it. A black with furtive undertones—damp, rich soil. Solar eclipses. Burnt wood. The warmth that you remembered radiated from him, deep, soft, peach-colored, and just as sweet.
All you could do was stare at him, taking in the sight of him, the elegance with which he held himself, the grace he exuded just by standing there.
Your gaze returned to his eyes, studying them. There was something in them that you hadn’t seen before. Not that it hadn’t been there—because it had been. You just had not known to look for it because you hadn’t yet known it existed.
Arra. The force lighting somebody’s eyes as they gazed upon their soulmate—or rather, their intended soul.
His bottom lip quivered, yet Hyunjin parted his mouth open, his eyes dancing all over you. “Darling,” he breathed, and his voice hit you like a storm. He said it again. “Darling…”
Relief came first, then fondness, followed by familiarity. You had thought about it a lot in your mind, the moment you would see Hyunjin again. Not because you assumed it would happen, but because you couldn’t help it. Whatever indifference had inhabited you in the first months after his disappearance had evaded you long ago, and the truth was that you could hardly fall asleep at night without imagining a scenario in which you saw him again. Sometimes, it was grandiose—he broke into a radio station while you were giving an interview, or he himself went on TV to give one, talking about how much he missed you. Other times, you just ran into him on a street somewhere.
When you questioned him about it, Jisung told you that Hyunjin needed to leave or else you would be in danger. He did not know too much about it, but it had something to do with Cipherian, the myths and the translations. You couldn’t wrap your mind around any of it and Seungmin was no help. Despite having been Hyunjin’s agent for years, he also had no idea of his involvement in any illegal activities, and certainly not anything related to linguistics. Therefore, you did not think it was true.
It’s not like there’s a price on my head, you pointed out that day. To Jisung, who had been hired by Hyunjin to be your personal bodyguard. Because, well, there was some kind of price on your head.
Maybe it made you hate him a little less. Hyunjin. Maybe you resented him less, too. Whatever involvement he had in it—a foolish part of you wanted to believe he truly did it for your safety. For your own good. That he left reluctantly. That Jisung didn’t lie when he said Hyunjin loved you.
So when you slipped under your covers at night—whether it was in your bed or in an unfamiliar hotel room—you thought about him. Hyunjin. And about the moment you might see him again in a place that wasn’t an ad in a magazine or a billboard on the side of a road, whether his body was used to advertise perfume or a car or expensive jewelry. You thought about the true him, in the flesh, about his honey skin, the unnatural warmth that always emanated from him, the silky sensation of him underneath your fingertips or under your tongue.
Maybe it made sense that it would be here. In this museum, under the very skylight where you met him first, surrounded by the same walls, and even, for the most part, the same people. You wondered if you were the same woman you had been back then, all those months ago. It felt like you weren’t. Like he had changed you somehow.
You let relief wash over you for all the seconds it required—it was truly Hyunjin standing there, and he seemed healthy. He seemed fine, so nothing bad must have happened to him. He also didn’t look like he had developed some kind of hatred for you over time, which, selfishly, comforted some part of you. You became aware that something else was lurking underneath the relief—it was sharp, unkind. Ugly.
For a second or perhaps two, you thought the world came to a stop but it turned out it was quite the opposite. Around you, it kept going. The world kept spinning and so did the dancers, intertwined, beautiful, relishing the moment, unaware of the storm going on in your chest. It was you who turned motionless. It was your heart that turned stagnant and inanimate. Maybe it wanted nothing to do with what was coming.
But you couldn’t help it.
The tears burned your eyes. They were hot. Scalding. As though it was acid rolling down your cheeks. You took a step back, feeling Jisung somewhere there but ignoring him. The world kept spinning. The whole time, the world had kept going, and you had been forced to follow along. You had been obligated to get up in the morning and to continue existing without Hyunjin. And he hadn’t even said goodbye.
When you spoke, your voice came out all wrong. Foreign. As though it was acid spilling out of your lips, too. “You lied to me.” Your throat felt so tight it hurt. “You said you’d be back soon.”
The memory was fuzzy, but it was undeniably there. You were sitting at your computer, writing compulsively, your naked body wrapped in a blanket, your pussy still sore from your earlier passionate lovemaking with Hyunjin. The scent of his cum lingered on you, musky and sweet. Remembering it was more painful than remembering all the months during which you were without him. Or all the other times you had been abandoned. All the other times you had been made ephemeral.
Will you be back soon? you had asked him.
Soon, he had said. And it had been a lie.
“You lied to me,” you repeated, louder, your voice turning into a growl and a sob all at once. Your legs felt weak and your arms weaker, but you reached for him, Hyunjin, because you wanted to hurt him, maybe. Hit him in his perfect face.
He caught your fist before it struck him, staring at you with wounds instead of eyes. He parted his lips, searching for words, but they never came. Still, he held your hand in his, inches away from his cheek, daring to squeeze it tenderly every few seconds.
“I bet you’ll say it was to spare me,” you added before Hyunjin could say anything. “I bet you’ll say it was so you wouldn’t hurt me. Well, guess what? It didn’t work!”
You were vaguely aware of the heads turning in your direction, but you were mostly aware of Hyunjin and of the way your hand felt when it was being held by his. Because he was not letting go, even if you tried to pull away. He looked a little like you had stabbed him in the chest. For an instant, it felt like you were looking into a mirror. For once, your pain had found its match.
“I know,” he murmured, a scowl appearing between his eyebrows. He made no attempt to apologize. He did not ask for your forgiveness.
He did not let go of your hand.
Instead, he pulled you closer. You tried to find something to say. You searched for strength within you—not to hit him, not really, but to scream at him. It was what you wanted to do. The entire time, since that day you finally allowed yourself to miss him, it had been what you had wanted to do. Scream at the top of your lungs. As though you needed an exorcism. People had hurt you before Hyunjin. Objectively, people had hurt you in worse ways. People had cheated on you. People had taken advantage of you. They sometimes said cruel things behind your back.
And it had affected you. All those times. Deeply. Or so you thought.
It all seemed so meaningless now. As you were facing Hyunjin again after all this time, you came to realize what love was. You had known for a while that you loved him and that it was true love. The truest, most forthright kind of love you had ever felt, and that you would ever feel, too. But you hadn’t really thought that you’d see him again.
But you hadn’t really thought that he loved you the same way you loved him.
He did not let go of your hand. He was just inches away now, his face so close that you could only see the details of him—the moles on his honey skin, the fine lines adorning his pillowy lips, their pomegranate shade. The strand of silky hair that fell over his dark eyes. His purposeful and deliberate and troubled gaze.
His breath smelled like the wine they served. The sleeve of his shirt was slightly damp. Hyunjin did not let go of you.
You only became aware of the inert quality of your heart and soul as it dissipated the very moment Hyunjin kissed you.
He pressed his lips onto yours, his mouth warm and trembling, unsure yet unequivocal. It might as well have been your first kiss with the way it made you come alive. It might as well have been the thousandth time he kissed you with how familiar it felt—known but not mundane. Lips that were more than just a memory. Lips that you had longed for, that you had craved for, but you had not dared hope for. Because the absence of them had left you suffocating—and how could one even hope without air in their lungs?
Hyunjin deepened the kiss, pulling you closer, and you let him, moaning faintly into his mouth. He breathed into yours. And you in his. Kissing him was easy and soft and mighty. His lips reminded you of a late summer peach. You couldn’t let go of him, and he did not let go of you, still, his tongue finding yours, tasting you, feeling you.
You thought of the first time he kissed you.
And the last time.
And everything in between. The agony of it.
He kissed you again, tightening his embrace. You had never experienced such ecstasy. It was him. It was really him. And you felt his love on his lips. You saw it in his eyes. His kiss felt like a plea. It felt as though there were only the two of you on earth.
At least until somebody bumped into you as they danced with their partner.
You allowed the kiss to break, but Hyunjin caressed your lips with his thumbs, an unreadable expression on his face.
“Darling,” he murmured, and you heard him over the music and the crowd. You would have heard him over thunder, over an avalanche, over anything. “Let’s get out of here, yes?”
Of course. You would follow him everywhere if he asked you. Your hand was still in his. You glanced at Jisung, who seemed reluctant to let you go, and offered him a reassuring smile. The smile came easily to your lips—it wasn’t rehearsed or forced. You realized that you meant it.
You felt the cold air before even stepping out—someone took their time closing the door behind them, and you remembered you had left your jacket in your office upstairs. Somehow, this did not bother you.
It was cold enough that the rain had turned to snow.
Thick snowflakes fell lazily from the sky, quieting the city, melting in places, and covering the ground in white patches in others.
Hyunjin held your hand still, but with the other one, you caught a snowflake on your palm. It dissolved almost instantly, but it remained long enough for you to see its intricate lines, unique yet familiar.
It was too early in the year for snow. The fact that it snowed was strange, but it did not bother you, nor did the cold. Hyunjin was staring up at the sky with eyes full of tears, as though it meant something to him.
One day, you told yourself, you would ask him.
If he stayed, that is. But at least now you were choosing to follow him and to let him unmake you. His love, your love—it was worth paying whatever price.
to be continued...
Author's note: 🧍♀️ well. I never expected I'd be here, posting this, today. But here I am... and you know I want to thank you all, my readers who have stayed loyal & patient despite my VERY long hiatus. So, thank you. It's just nice to come back home and not find the house completely empty, you know?
But I cannot not thank my dear @cb97percent, without whom I would have given up a long time ago. She believed in me while I didn't believe in anything. She still does. But much like Chris caught Hyunjin just in time on that infamous day at the studio, she doesn't seem to want to give up on me, so I really wanted to say a special thank you.
I am so, so privileged to be here, and to have my readers and friends and this space. I just want to say, I'm so grateful. To everyone who made it possible: please know you've contributed to something deeply meaningful for me.
permanent taglist: **this is my taglist as it were the last time I posted something which is a long long time ago. I'm so sorry to have tagged you in something you don't care about if I have. If you want me to remove you, please DM me and I'll just do it. If you want to be added to the taglist, please also let me know**
Demigod Hyunjin visiting my dreary world once again.
As usual, Mari has crafted something so beautifully lyrical with a bluntness that reads as so honest and perfect. I was wrapped up in it from beginning to end.
This reunion and revisitation was something I've been looking forward to and it was a spectacular read 💛
hyunjin x reader (afab), hyunjin x felix (as past lovers) ; genre: mythology au, romance, smut. This work is 18+, minors DNI.
summary: a demigod is sent to the mortal plane by his god of a father as a punishment
warnings: angst ; hurt/comfort ; longing ; smut ; themes of unrequited feelings. ; themes of difficult relationships w/ parents ; mentions of past failed romantic relationships ; mutual pining ; strangers to lovers — the mythology represented in this story is a creation, although inspired by greek & other mythologies.
You met his gaze, intrigued. His eyes were bright, of a color you couldn’t quite put into words—you were a scholar but you were not a poet and the mere words hazel brown simply didn’t describe them. His eyes, it seemed, held whole entire worlds inside of them.
— Part one: sunlight/shooting star
— Part two: gyokuro green tea
— Part three: a murmuration of starlings
— Part four: run along with the gods
— Part five: intended souls (tbr)
— Part six: tbr
Synopsis: You spend your days writing romance, wondering when it will find you. Unaware that it’s right next-door. (20,8k words)
Author's note: Happy new year and as Hyunjin said, let's continue to live life romantically ❣️
You’ve wanted to be a writer for as long as you can remember.
Not the vague kind of wanting, either—the kind that shifts shape every few years. You knew. Even when you were younger, scribbling stories in the margins of notebooks and filling entire pages with feelings you didn’t yet have words for, you knew this was what you wanted to do. You were always drawn to love stories. To the way emotions could be stretched, heightened, made beautiful on the page. You liked the idea of writing something that made people feel… things.
So you grew up and did it. You became a writer. A romance writer, of all things.
You sit in your chair now, feet tucked beneath you, laptop warm against your thighs, and watch the cursor blink at the top of a blank page. This part should be easy. It always is. You know how to write longing. You know how to pace desire, how to make a single look feel like a promise. You know how to build a love story that burns slow and ends soft.
What you don’t know—what you never quite figured out—is how to live one.
You scoff quietly and lean back, the chair creaking in the silence of your apartment. Another night, another deadline, another fictional couple about to fall into each other’s arms right on schedule. Meanwhile, the room around you is still, unromantic in a way that feels almost deliberate. You’re still in your pajama pants. The coffee on your desk has gone cold. The crumpled papers spilling out of your trash can. Dirty dishes piling on your sink.
You write bestselling romance novels under a pseudonym. Spicy ones. The kind that get passed around group chats and dog-eared on bedside tables. Readers tell you your stories feel real. They assume you must know exactly what you’re talking about—love, intimacy, being the one true love and all.
They don’t know your name. Not the real one, at least. They don’t know that the person behind the words is sitting alone in an apartment that smells faintly of stale coffee, wondering when exactly her life veered so far from the stories she’s so good at telling.
You stare at the paragraph you wrote earlier and feel something twist in your chest. You highlight it and press delete.
Your life has never looked like this. No grand gestures, no cinematic confessions. Just routines and deadlines and the dull, persistent awareness that you are very good at writing romance and very bad at finding it.
The cursor blinks, wating. You exhale slowly, fingers hovering over the keys, and try to convince yourself that this is enough. That wanting something since you were young doesn’t mean you’re entitled to all of it. That writing about love still counts, even if it doesn’t happen to you.
Still, the thought lingers, quietly and uncomfortably.
You always believed in romance. You just didn’t expect it to feel so far away.
-
Once you’ve done the dishes, you feel a lot better and ready to get back to work.
You open a new document beneath the abandoned chapter and type a name you’ll probably change later. Male Lead. Placeholder. Temporary. You crack your knuckles and try again.
He needs to exist first, you tell yourself. The rest will follow.
You close your eyes for a second, letting the image form the way it usually does. You imagines a man leaning against a doorway. Rings on his fingers. Ink curling up his forearms like secrets he doesn’t bother hiding. There’s an ease to him, a confidence that isn’t loud but feels inevitable. Someone who looks like trouble in the way that makes people lean closer instead of stepping back.
Your fingers move as you picture him. You give him a crooked smile, a voice that carries a laugh even when he’s serious. You imagine the way he’d look at the his love interest like he already knows how the story ends.
There’s a faint thrill in your chest, the familiar hum of creation, of possibility. This is the part you’re good at—building someone from nothing, shaping desire until it feels real enough to touch.
Then, your phone rings. You flinch, eyes snapping open, the image dissolving instantly. The name on the screen pulls you fully back into your apartment, your chair, your life.
Hyunjin.
You answer without thinking. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says, sounding a little breathless, like he’s juggling things. You can picture him with the phone tucked between shoulder and ear, one hand on the espresso machine, the other probably reaching for a cup. “I hate to ask you last minute, but—are you busy?”
You glance at your laptop, at the half-formed man on the screen who will still be there later. “Not really.”
“Could you maybe pick up Archie from daycare?” he asks. “I got held up at the shop. Delivery issue. I’ll owe you. Again.”
You smile before you can stop yourself. “You already owe me, like, ten times.”
“I’ll make it eleven.”
You laugh softly, pushing your chair back as you stand. “Yeah, I can do that. I was going to take a break anyway.”
“That’d be amazing,” he says, relief clear in his voice. “Thank you. He’s probably been asking when you’ll show up.”
“He always does,” you say, fondness slipping in uninvited. Archie has a habit of spotting you before anyone else, face lighting up like you’re part of his routine—which, somehow, you are. “I’ll head out now.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” Hyunjin says. “Seriously.”
“I know,” you teasingly reply with a sly smile.
You hang up and grab your keys, casting one last look at the screen before closing your laptop. The male lead stares back at you, unfinished, waiting.
-
The walk to the daycare is short, just a few blocks away, but you take your time anyway. The air outside feels cleaner than the stale quiet of your apartment, the city moving at a gentle, late-afternoon pace around you. You pass familiar storefronts, cracked sidewalks you’ve memorized without meaning to, and you feel your shoulders loosen with every step.
Picking up Archie is always like this—an excuse to step out of your head.
By the time you reach the daycare, you’re already smiling, and it only grows when you spot him inside. He sees you before you even open the door, face lighting up so brightly it almost feels unfair to everything you were brooding over an hour ago.
“You came!” he says again, like it’s a surprise every single time.
“Hi, Archie,” you softly greet, crouching down as he barrels into you, all elbows and enthusiasm. His laugh is loud and unfiltered, the kind that doesn’t worry about being too much.
Archie is a mini version of Hyunjin — dark shiny hair, small eyes, small face and even the whisker dimples that appears when he deeply smiles. In other words, he’s just as beautiful as his dad and you doubt that the mother had any part in it except for brought Archie to the world.
Walking home with Archie is your favorite part. He slips his small hand into yours, swinging it slightly as you head down the sidewalk together. The sun is lower now, bathing everything in a soft, forgiving light and he starts talking almost immediately.
“And today we had painting time,” he says, words tumbling over each other, “and Miss Laura said mine was very good but I got paint on my shirt but that’s okay because it was blue and blue is Daddy’s favorite color and then—oh!—and then we played dinosaurs and I was the big one and Leo was scared but not really scared—”
You hum and nod, letting him ramble, asking small questions at the right moments.
There’s something precious about the way he talks, like every detail matters because it does to him. His excitement is infectious, pure and uncomplicated, untouched by expectations or disappointment. You listen intently, smiling when he laughs at his own story, when he stops mid-sentence because he’s remembered something even more important.
Archie’s world is simple in the best way. Today was good. He painted. He played. He laughed.
That’s enough.
As he talks, something inside you quiets and all of your worries fade into the background. This easy companionship, this small joy — feels like a kind of rest you didn’t realize you needed.
A mental snooze, you think, smiling to yourself.
By the time the apartment building comes into view, Archie is still talking, still animated, still very much five years old and wholly himself. You squeeze his hand gently, grateful for the break, for the moment, for the way something so simple can make the world feel softer.
You don’t think about romance once on the walk home and maybe that’s exactly why it feels so good.
-
You let yourselves into Hyunjin’s apartment with the spare key he gave you months ago. Archie kicks off his shoes by the door without being told, backpack abandoned in the exact spot it always ends up. You follow suit, slipping out of yours and setting your bag down, already moving through the space like it’s your own apartment.
You know his routine by heart at this point. Snack first—apple slices today, because that’s what he asked for on the walk home. Wash hands. Cartoon on low volume while he settles. By the time you pull the coloring book from the drawer in the coffee table, he’s already climbing onto the rug beside you, crayons scattered between you like confetti. You stay with him like this while the afternoon drifts into evening, coloring shapes that don’t stay inside the lines and praising every choice like it’s the right one. Archie narrates as he goes, explaining why the dinosaur is purple today and why the sun has a face.
The front door opens just as you’re deciding whether the sky should be green or blue.
“Daddy’s home,” Archie announces casually, not bothering to look up.
Hyunjin steps inside, the door closing behind him with a tired sigh. His long dark hair is pulled into a messy bun at the nape of his neck, loose strands escaping around his small face. His shirt is wrinkled, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms dusted with coffee grounds and the evidence of a long day. He looks exhausted in that specific way that only comes from being on your feet since dawn.
The fatigue softens instantly when he sees you and Archie, a warm smile spreading across his face as his eyes move from you to his son sprawled happily at your side. “Hey,” he says gently. “Daddy’s home.”
“Hi, Daddy,” Archie replies, still coloring, still firmly seated next to you.
Hyunjin pouts from the lack of enthusiasm. “That’s it? No running hug? No ‘Daddy!’?”
You bite back a smile while picking the color of the crayons.
Hyunjin drops his keys onto the counter and makes a show of sighing. “Wow. I see how it is.”
You keep coloring, glancing up at him briefly. “Tough crowd.”
He crosses his arms, pretending to think. “Well, I guess if you’re too busy to say hi, maybe you’re also too busy to have your favorite food for dinner.”
Archie gasps, drops the crayon, and scrambles to his feet, sprinting across the room. He crashes straight into Hyunjin’s legs, arms wrapping around him without hesitation.
“No! I want it! I want it!” he insists.
Hyunjin laughs, the sound easy and unguarded, and squats down to gather his son into a proper hug, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Who wants chicken noodles for dinner?”
“Me! Me! Me!” Archie enthusiastically shouts, raising his hand in the air.
Hyunjin presses a quick kiss to his temple and then brushes the hair stuck to his forehead. “Then tell me about your day.”
Archie launches right back into his stories, just as animated as before, hands gesturing wildly as Hyunjin listens, nodding, murmuring encouragement, entirely focused.
You watch them for a moment, something warm blooming quietly in your chest but decide to interrupt.
“Hey, do I get chicken noodles for dinner too?”
Hyunjin looks up at you, still crouched, still smiling. “Of course.”
“Yay!” you and Archie cheer at the same time, voices overlapping.
-
Dinner is easy in the way only familiar things are.
Hyunjin sits across from you, shoulders slumping a little now that the day is over. He looks softer like this, hair still in its messy bun, exhaustion worn openly instead of tucked away behind customer smiles and polite conversation. He thanks Archie for waiting before taking his first bite, listens patiently as his son talks with his mouth half-full, gently reminds him to chew.
Hyunjin wasn’t always this version of himself. You know that. Two years ago, before you moved into this building, his life cracked open. A divorce that didn’t explode but still left wreckage. A toddler who suddenly became his whole world. He doesn’t talk about it often, only in small, honest pieces when it comes up naturally. You know enough to understand that it wasn’t bitter—just sad. That sometimes things don’t survive, even when people try. You fall in love and that means, you can fall out of love too.
Now he’s a single dad, doing his best, owning a coffee shop three blocks away. The place is an extension of him—warm, welcoming, unpretentious. The kind of café where people linger without being rushed, where names are remembered and regulars are greeted like friends.
That’s how you met him, actually.
Your first day in the apartment building, arms full of boxes and memories, the knock came before you’d even figured out where the mugs went. Hyunjin stood outside your door with a basket of pastries balanced on one arm and two cups of coffee in the other, Archie tucked against his leg like a shadow.
“Hi, we’re your next-door neighbors,” he’d said, smiling a little shyly.
“I’m Hyunjin and this…” he placed a hand on the little boy’s shoulder. “This is my son, Archie.”
You remembered offering a warm smile at them as you introduced yourself back to them. Then, you crouched down to his Archie’s level to greet him. “Hi, Archie. I hope we can be friends.”
Archie had taken one look at you and decided, immediately, that you were safe. He’d clung to your leg like you’d known each other forever, peeking up at you with wide eyes while Hyunjin apologized profusely. You hadn’t minded. Not even a little.
Somehow, that moment became the foundation for everything that followed. You’ve been living next to each other in quiet harmony ever since—borrowing things, sharing food, watching Archie when shifts run late. It was never something you sat down and defined. It just… happened. Slowly. Naturally.
After dinner, Archie sits patiently while you dab at the sauce smeared around his mouth with a napkin. He squirms, protesting more out of habit than anything else, and you laugh quietly as you catch the last stubborn streak on his chin.
“All clean now,” you announce.
Hyunjin is already moving around the kitchen, stacking plates, rinsing them before setting them in the sink. The space feels smaller when he’s in it—occupied in a comforting way. You stand halfway, instinctively ready to help.
“I’ve got it,” he assures you.
You hesitate, then settle back into your chair, watching as he works.
There’s something unhurried about the way he does things, even when he’s tired. He doesn’t rush through motions; he finishes them properly.
“Archie,” he says gently, glancing over his shoulder. “Wash up and change into your pajamas, yeah?”
“Okay, Daddy,” Archie replies, sliding off the chair and padding down the hallway.
The apartment goes quieter once he’s gone, the absence noticeable in the best way. Hyunjin turns back to you. “Coffee?”
You tilt your head, considering. “Actually… do you have something harder?”
He snorts, entirely unimpressed. “Decaf it is.”
You chuckle softly. “I didn’t say yes to that.”
“You didn’t say no either,” he counters, already reaching for the coffee canister.
You watch him as he scoops the beans into the grinder, measuring by instinct rather than sight. His sleeves are still rolled up, forearms relaxed as he grinds the coffee patiently, listening to the sound like it tells him when it’s ready. He pours the grounds into the filter, taps it just once to level it, then slowly starts pouring hot water over it. The coffee blooms, dark and rich, dripping steadily into the pot.
Hyunjin is handsome in a way that sneaks up on you. Not flashy. Just… solid. Familiar. His profile softened by concentration, his movements careful and practiced. You’ve watched him do this countless times, but it still feels oddly hypnotic—like witnessing a ritual.
You lean your chin into your hand. “You know,” you say lightly, “you could just give me instant coffee and save yourself the trouble.”
He looks at you like you’ve personally offended him. “Where’s the romance in that?”
You scoff and lean back on your chair. “Pfft… Romance? But that’s my job. I’m the one who writes romance books, and look at me.”
That earns his attention as if he’s just remembered something. “How’s the writing going? Did you start the new one yet?” he asks, tone casual but curious.
“Barely. I keep trying, but everything feels off. Ideas slip away before I can grab them.” You hesitate, then sigh. “I think it’s because my life lacks romance.”
Hyunjin hums, noncommittal, as he pours the coffee into two mugs.
“I’ve been single for years,” you continue, words spilling easier now. “I barely go out. I sit at home and write about love all day, and the only thing I share my bed with is my laptop. There’s nothing romantic about that.”
“What you do is romantic,” he says calmly, handing you a mug.
You roll your eyes. “My readers would think I’m a fraud if they knew who I really am. How I live.”
He smiles at that, unfazed. “So what do you expect to happen, then?”
You take a sip, thinking. “I don’t know. I just think that it’d be a good time for my dream man to walk into my life.”
He chuckles, almost teasing. “What, a knight in shining armor? A prince on a white horse?”
You glare at him. “Dead wrong.”
“Oh?” He leans against the counter, amused. His eyes are on you, giving all of his attention.
You straighten slightly, warming to the idea. “Someone different. Someone confident. I don’t mind a tattoo or two. Piercings, maybe. Creative. A little reckless. Someone who feels like he stepped out of a story.”
Hyunjin laughs. “I’ve got at least three regulars like that at the shop.”
“I am not shopping for men at your coffee shop,” you say, scandalized.
Before he can reply, small footsteps thunder down the hallway.
Archie reappears in a dinosaur onesie, arms raised proudly. “Look!”
You coo immediately, setting your mug down and kneeling. “Oh my god. You’re too cute.”
You lean back just enough to take a good look at Archie, noticing the way he’s almost outgrown the onesie — proof of how much he’s grown. “Please, stop growing up! You have to stay like this forever,” you murmur as you pull him for tight hug.
“No!” Archie protests. “I wanna be big. Bigger than Daddy.”
You grin, then stand as you realize it’s time for you to leave so the boys can settle gently into the night. “I should head back. You’ve got bedtime duty.”
You hug Archie tightly, wishing him goodnight, then turn to Hyunjin. “Goodnight.”
You walk up to the counter, picking up the mug to take it home with you.
“Thank you,” Hyunjin says quietly. “For today.”
“No worries,” you reply while raising the mug of coffee. “I live right there.”
It really is just across the hall.
Your apartment greets you with its familiar clutter—notes, books, your open laptop waiting where you left it. You sigh, sinking back into your chair, fingers finding the keyboard again.
This time, you don’t scoff. You take a sip of your coffee and start to write.
-
Morning arrives with a dull knock cutting through the haze of sleep.
You groan, lifting your head with effort, neck stiff from the angle you fell asleep in. Your chair creaks as you shift, and the screen in front of you flickers awake when your knee nudges the desk. The cursor blinks insistently in the middle of a paragraph, proof that you were writing right up until sleep claimed you without permission.
Figures.
The knocking comes again, firmer this time. You glance at the clock on your screen and wince. Too early. Definitely too early. You scrub a hand over your face and push yourself up, legs protesting as you stand. Your reflection in the darkened laptop screen is… rough. Bed hair pointing in every direction, yesterday’s clothes wrinkled and clinging, glasses still abandoned somewhere on the desk.
“Coming,” you call out, voice hoarse with sleep.
You gather your hair into a messy bun with one hand, shove your glasses onto your nose with the other, and shuffle toward the door, bare feet dragging softly across the wooden floor. In your foggy head, the picture is already formed—Hyunjin on the other side, coffee in hand, apologetic smile ready, probably here because he needs your help to take Archie to kindergarten.
The knock comes again.
“I said—coming,” you mumble, fingers fumbling with the lock.
You twist the knob and pull the door open. You freeze because it is not… Hyunjin.
It’s someone else entirely. Someone with a gummy smile, leaning casually against the doorframe like he’s got nowhere else to be. Someone with overgrown dark, permed hair falling into his eyes, silver glinting faintly at his ears. Tattoos peek out from the sleeveless top he’s wearing, ink curling along skin like it belongs there. He looks awake in a way you decidedly are not—alert, amused, taking you in with a slow, curious glance.
For one disorienting second, you wonder if you’re still asleep at your desk.
“Uh,” he says, lips quirking. “Hi, I’m your new neighbor.”
Your brain lags behind the moment, scrambling to catch up. Glasses slightly crooked. Hair a mess. Heart doing something inconvenient.
This—this is impossible.
Because standing in front of you, framed by the hallway light, is someone who looks alarmingly like the man you were imagining just hours ago.
The dream man.
-
For a second, you just stare at him.
Your brain refuses to cooperate, still caught somewhere between sleep and the impossible coincidence unfolding in front of you. He shifts his weight slightly, waiting, the hallway light catching on the silver at his ears.
“I’m Han,” he says, like this is normal. Like he didn’t just step straight out of your half-written chapter.
“I moved in just now. Next door.” He gestures vaguely toward the apartment beside yours. “I was wondering—do you happen to have a hammer I could borrow?”
A hammer. The word floats around uselessly in your head.
“Oh—uh—yeah,” you say finally, far too late. “I think so. I mean. I think I do. Somewhere.”
Without giving him time to respond or yourself time to think, you turn and retreat back into your apartment.
The door closes behind you, and you stop in the kitchen, gripping the counter. You glance at your reflection in the microwave door and immediately regret every life choice that led you here. Messy bun threatening to collapse. Glasses slightly crooked. Old, faded T-shirt. Bare feet. Absolutely not the first impression you imagined giving your dream man. You groan softly, then remember—he’s still waiting.
Right. Hammer.
You drop to your knees and rummage through the bottom cabinet, dragging out a dusty toolbox you don’t even remember buying or having. You flip it open, hopeful for half a second. No hammer.
You sigh, push yourself up, and head back to the door. Han is still there, patient waiting with his hands tucked into his jeans pockets.
“I’m so sorry,” you say, flustered all over again. “I don’t actually have one. But—I know someone who does.”
He smiles easily. “Lead the way.”
You cross the hall before you can overthink it, unlocking Hyunjin’s door and letting yourself in like you always do.
Hyunjin is at the counter, packing Archie’s lunch into his backpack with practiced efficiency. “Hey,” he says without looking up. “Coffee’s—”
You clear your throat. “Uh—Hyunjin?”
Hyunjin turns and pauses when he sees someone else with you.
Han steps forward slightly. “Hey. I’m Han. The new neighbor.”
Hyunjin blinks once, then smiles politely. “I’m Hyunjin. And this is Archie.”
Archie looks up from the sofa where he’s wrestling with his socks. “Hi,” he says cheerfully.
Han waves. “Hey, man.”
“I just needed to borrow a hammer,” Han adds.
“Sure, just give me a second,” Hyunjin says immediately, already heading down the hallway.
While he’s gone, you suddenly find the ceiling very interesting. The floor, too. Anywhere but Han. You drift over to Archie instead, crouching down to help him tug his sock over his heel.
“Your sock’s inside out, buddy,” you murmur.
“It’s fine,” Archie says seriously.
Hyunjin returns with the hammer, handing it over. “Bring it back whenever.”
“Thanks,” Han says. “Appreciate it.”
Then he’s gone, door closing softly behind him.
The second it clicks shut, you straighten and practically vibrate.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” you freak out, flailing your hands and pacing the room.
“Did you see him?” you whisper fiercely. “Hyunjin, that’s him. That’s exactly him. I literally described someone like that last night. Tattoos, piercings—this could be it. This could actually be it. Romance might finally be—”
Hyunjin doesn’t say much, moving around the apartment, grabbing Archie’s jacket, checking his bag. You keep talking anyway, words tumbling out unchecked.
“And the timing? He just shows up? Like that?”
He finally stops, crouching to help Archie into his shoes. “You can tell me the rest later,” he says gently. “We’re going to be late.”
“Oh. Right.”
He gestures toward the counter where the coffee pot rests. “Coffee’s fresh.”
Archie hops off the sofa and walks over to you. “Bye.”
You kneel and hug him tight. “Have the best day, okay?”
“Okay!”
Hyunjin grabs his hat and jacket, ushering Archie toward the door. “Don’t forget to lock up,” he says to you.
“I won’t. Have a good day.”
“You too.”
The door closes behind them, leaving the apartment quiet again. You stand there for a moment, coffee steaming on the counter, heart still racing.
Next door, somewhere beyond the wall, Han exists.
And suddenly, romance doesn’t feel so far away after all.
-
The next few days pass in a strange, quiet blur.
You don’t mean to observe him at first. It just… happens.
You start noticing patterns the way you always do when you’re building a character—small details that stack up without you realizing you’re collecting them. The sound of a door opening down the hall. Footsteps on the stairs. A low hum of music bleeding faintly through the walls at odd hours.
Han leaves his apartment late in the mornings, usually when you’re already awake but pretending not to be. You learn this by accident the first time, standing in your kitchen with a mug of coffee cooling in your hands when you hear his door open. You peek through the peephole without thinking, and catch a glimpse of him slipping his jacket on, keys already in hand.
After that, you notice it more.
Some days he leaves closer to noon, hair still damp like he showered in a rush. Other days, it’s earlier, sunglasses perched on his head even when the sun isn’t particularly bright. There’s a guitar case slung over his shoulder more often than not, stickers peeling at the edges like it’s been everywhere with him. Not sure if he plays guitar as a hobby or it’s his job or… he’s in a band. Either way, you like the fact that he plays guitar.
Then, you start recognizing the sound of his return, too. The way he unlocks his door without fumbling. Sometimes it’s early evening. Sometimes it’s well past midnight, the hallway quiet and dim when he finally comes home. On those nights, music filters faintly through the wall—something fast and chaotic, not loud enough to be intrusive, just present enough to let you know he’s there.
You pass him in the hallway once, hands full of groceries. He flashes you an easy smile. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you reply, a little too quickly.
Another time, you’re both waiting for the elevator. He smells faintly of smoke and soap, a combination that shouldn’t work but does. He asks how your day’s been. You say “good” even though you’ve spent most of it staring at a blinking cursor.
Sometimes you hear him humming under his breath when he locks up. Sometimes he nods at you with a tired grin, like you’re already familiar.
Nothing progresses. Nothing happens. But you notice everything anyway.
The days settle into a rhythm that now includes him, threaded quietly through your routine. You find yourself timing your coffee refills, your trips out, your walks to the mailbox, hoping that you might run into him. Sometimes you do. Sometimes you don’t.
At night, when you sit back down at your desk to write, the male lead in your book starts to look a little different. His habits more specific. His movements more familiar. You tell yourself it’s coincidence.
Still, when you hear Han’s door click shut down the hall, you pause mid-sentence every time.
Just for a second. Just long enough to wonder.
-
By the third day, you stop pretending it’s accidental. You know his timing now—give or take five minutes. So you wait by your door, already dressed, laptop bag slung over your shoulder like an alibi. You ditch your glasses in favor of contacts, smooth your hair, take one last look at yourself in the mirror. Different. Awake. Presentable. The kind of person who looks like they might casually exist in the same world as someone like Han.
You intently listen through the door and right on cue, you hear the soft click of a lock down the hall.
You give it two seconds, just enough to make it believable and then step out into the hallway, locking your door behind you with practiced ease. You keep your face calm as you press the elevator button.
Against the pulse drumming in your ear, you can hear his footsteps approaching.
“Hey,” Han says first, voice easy.
You turn, heart jumping anyway. “Hey.”
The elevator arrives with a soft ding. He steps aside, holding the door for you. “After you.”
“Thanks,” you mutter as you step in, standing a little too straight as he follows.
The doors slide shut, and suddenly it’s just the two of you, enclosed in a space that feels far too small for how aware you are of him. Silence settles and you can only hope he can’t hear the way your heart beating out of your chest.
You inhale quietly, then force yourself to speak. “That’s a guitar, right?” you ask, gesturing toward the case on his back.
He glances over his shoulder, lips twitching. “Yeah. I’m in a band. Kinda lame, though.”
You chuckle despite yourself. “I don’t believe you.”
He grins. “Yeah, me neither.”
The elevator hums as it descends. He looks at you. “You heading somewhere?”
“Yeah,” you say, grateful for the question. “Going to do some writing at the coffee shop.”
“Oh.” He raises his brows. “You’re a writer?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“What kind of stuff?”
To say that you write romance kind of… uncool. You hesitate for half a beat—just long enough to decide. “Just some lame books.”
He laughs, the sound warm and unguarded. “Welcome to the club then.”
The elevator chimes, doors sliding open onto the lobby. He steps out first this time, glancing back at you. “Have a good day.”
“You too.”
Outside, you part ways—him heading down the street in the opposite direction, guitar case bouncing lightly against his back. You turn toward Hyunjin’s coffee shop, heart still racing, a smile you don’t bother hiding tugging at your lips.
Nothing monumental happened. No sparks. No declarations. But it feels like a win anyway.
You know something new about him now and somehow, impossibly, he feels even cooler than before.
-
Madeleine has been a staple of the friendship between you and Hyunjin. He brought a basket full of them when he first introduced himself to you and you gushed to him about how delicious they were the next day.
Since then, Hyunjin always has madeleines waiting for you in the coffee shop, baked specially for you. He slides a tray onto your table with a soft clatter—still warm and dusted lightly with sugar, a cup of freshly brewed coffee steaming beside them. He’s in his apron, sleeves rolled up, dark hair tied into a messy bun that’s halfway given up after the morning rush.
“So,” you start immediately, leaning forward like you’ve been holding this in your lungs the entire walk here, “I talked to him.”
“Mhm,” Hyunjin hums, already turning to grab a stack of abandoned mugs from the table next to yours.
“In the elevator,” you add. “Casual. Natural. Effortless. Very rom-com coded.”
“That’s great,” he says, distracted, balancing cups in his hands.
“And he’s in a band,” you continue, lowering your voice like it’s a secret meant only for the two of you. “A band, Hyunjin.”
He pauses just long enough to glance at you. “Is he?”
“Yes. Guitar. Very cool about it too. Like, oh, this old thing energy.”
Hyunjin exhales through his nose, amused despite himself, and resumes gathering dishes. “And you’re already sure he’s your great romance?”
You nod emphatically. “I know.”
“How?” he asks, genuinely curious now.
You blink at him. “Duh. I’m a romance writer.”
He snorts. “Right.”
“I can feel these things,” you insist. “The timing. The vibe. The guitar case. It’s all very—meet-cute adjacent.”
Hyunjin sets the cups down behind the counter and looks at you. “So are you actually planning to write today, or did you just come here to gush about Han?”
“I am writing,” you defend quickly. “I just need inspiration first.”
He arches a brow. “Does that mean you came here just because you wanted to run into him again?”
You grin, unrepentant. “I came for multiple reasons.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And one of them,” you add, reaching for a madeleine and taking a bite, “is your coffee. And these. Which are amazing, by the way.”
That finally gets him—a small smile tugging at his mouth despite the skepticism. “Flattery won’t save you.”
A customer steps up to the counter, and Hyunjin straightens, slipping smoothly back into barista mode. “Be right with you,” he says before glancing back at you. “Write something. Don’t just stare at your screen.”
“I’m trying,” you shoot back.
He shakes his head fondly and turns away. You open your laptop, the familiar glow lighting up the table, coffee warm under your hands, crumbs dusting the page of your notebook.
You let Hyunjin fade into the background again—the soft hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of ceramic, the low murmur of the shop settling into its late-morning rhythm. Your fingers finally move, words spilling onto the screen in uneven but earnest lines. It’s not perfect, but it’s something, and something is better than the blinking cursor that haunted you all night.
You’re mid-sentence when a ripple of giggles drifts in from the table beside yours.
“…I’m telling you, he’s so handsome.”
“And a single dad,” another voice adds, breathless. “That’s, like, illegal.”
You quietly glance over the next table, two girls leaning close, whispering like they’re sharing state secrets, eyes flicking not-so-subtly toward the counter where Hyunjin stands as he warmly chats with a customer. He laughs at something, head tipping back just slightly, and the girls nearly lose it.
You press your lips together, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
Of course. Of course Hyunjin draws this kind of attention. He exists in soft mornings and warm smiles and freshly brewed coffee. He lives romance without trying, while you—ironically, tragically—sit here writing about it like it’s a distant myth.
A flicker of jealousy settles in your chest, gentle but undeniable. Funny, isn’t it? You think. The one who writes love stories hasn’t lived one in years, while the man steaming milk three feet away inspires them just by existing.
-
Archie’s hand is warm and a little sticky in yours as you walk him to kindergarten, his backpack bouncing with every step. He’s talking about a game they played yesterday, about how today he might get to be the line leader—and you hum and respond at all the right places, smiling because this is easy. This part always is.
You stop just outside the gate where his teacher is already waiting, clipboard tucked under her arm, cheerful as ever. She greets Archie by name, and he lights up like he’s been waiting all morning for this exact moment.
You crouch down, smoothing his hair with your palm before pulling him into a hug. “Have fun, okay?” you say softly.
“I will!” he promises, already half-turned toward his friends. He waves at you with all the enthusiasm a five-year-old can muster before being gently ushered inside, and you wave back until he disappears through the door.
Only then do you straighten, exhaling. As you start the walk home, you pull out your phone and text Hyunjin.
Archie’s in school. Safe and happy.
You don’t expect an instant reply, knowing that Hyunjin will be too busy to even check his phone. You slip the phone back into your pocket and continue down the sidewalk. Enjoying the way the city quiets down as most people have already settled into their routine — work, school, business to do.
You slow when you see a hair salon sits on the corner, the owner flipping the sign on the front door to ‘Open’. You glance at your reflection in the glass without meaning to—messy bun, familiar length, the same look you’ve had for… how long, exactly?
The thought lands quietly, then blooms. Maybe it’s time for a fresh cut.
Not because of certain someone. Not because of a guitarist next door or the way your heart keeps doing stupid things lately. You scoff under you breath, shaking your head.
Before you can overthink it, or talk yourself out of it, you reach for the handle and step inside.
Almost an hour later, you walk out of the salon feeling… lighter and also strangely exposed.
The cut sits differently against your neck, unfamiliar when the breeze slips past it. You keep catching your reflection in car windows as you walk—tilting your head, squinting, deciding you don’t hate it, deciding you’re not sure yet.
Maybe it’s just the shock of seeing yourself altered. Maybe it’s the quiet fear that you’ve changed something you can’t quite take back.
You check your phone and find a reply from Hyunjin.
Your treats are ready, ma’am.
-
The café is calmer than the morning rush—no frantic office workers lined up three-deep, just a handful of people lingering at tables. Someone reads a newspaper by the window. Someone else scrolls on their phone, coffee cooling between their palms.
You step inside and wait at the counter while Hyunjin finishes filling an order. He moves with practiced ease, apron tied snug around his waist, hair pulled into that familiar messy bun that always looks like it took zero effort and somehow still works.
When he finally looks up, he pauses just a second too long. But you catch it immediately.
Your hand flies to your hair. “Why? Is it bad?” you blurt out before he can say anything.
Hyunjin tilts his head, still can’t decide.
Your insecurity creeps in. “That bad?” You ask, anxiously touching your hair.
Hyunjin blinks, then shakes his head. “No. It looks good on you. You look beautiful.”
The knot in your chest loosens almost instantly. You smile, small and a little shy, fingers still brushing the ends of your hair. “Thanks.”
He reaches under the counter and pulls out a tray, the smell of freshly baked madeleines drifting up between you. “What do you feel today? Milk or no milk?” he asks, knowing that your coffee’s preference is based on your mood.
An idea comes to mind at the sight of the warm, sweet-smelling madeleine. You hesitate but before you can second-guess yourself, you shake your head.
“Actually, can you pack those to go? And… make two coffees?”
Hyunjin arches a brow, curious but amused. “Two?”
You nod, feeling something spark under your skin. Determination, maybe. Or nerves. Or both.
“I’m done waiting for romance to happen,” you say, half-joking, half-serious. “I think I want to try making it happen instead.”
Hyunjin studies you for a moment—really looks at you, at the new haircut, the way you’re standing a little taller than usual.
Then he smiles as he repeats your order. “Romance to go, coming right up!”
-
Your palms are a little sweaty around the paper bag and the two coffee cups as you stand outside Han’s unit, heart thudding like it’s trying to break free of your ribs.
You rehearse a few openings in your head. Something cool, something effortless, something that says it’s all casual instead of the fact that you’ve been overthinking it for ten minutes straight.
After a moment, you settle simple. Hey, I came here to drop these.
You mentally rehearsed the sentence in your head. You inhale, then knock.
You can hear music bleeding through the door, it’s loud and chaotic, it’s impossible for him to hear you knocking. You knock again, louder this time. Still nothing. By the third knock, you’re practically pounding.
Finally, the door swings open. Han smiles the moment he recognizes you.
“Hey, I—”
But then he turns and walks back inside, door left open behind him. No explanation, no pause.
You stand there for half a second, wondering if you’re supposed to follow or… You settle on the former, stepping into his apartment on hesitant feet.
It’s… exactly what you expect. Bare in places, cluttered in others. A guitar leaning against the wall. Jackets tossed over a chair. A very single-man kind of space.
He crosses the room and turns the volume down on the record player, the music softening into something you can finally hear without it rattling your bones.
“Sorry,” he says over his shoulder. “Didn’t hear you knocking.”
“It’s fine,” you reply quickly, trying to sound like you didn’t nearly talk yourself out of this. Your eyes drift to the record player. “What’re you listening to?”
“It’s one of my favorite bands.” He lifts the sleeve so you can see it.
Sex Jerkers. The band name makes your eyebrow raises for a second, definitely never heard of them. You lean in anyway, nodding like this is extremely familiar territory.
When he straightens, he looks at you expectantly. “So… can I help you with something?”
Right. This. The reason you’re here.
“I came here to drop these,” you say it casually like you didn’t rehearse it in your head for the last ten minutes. “Coffee and some warm madeleines.”
“Oh—thanks. That’s really nice of you.” His expression softens, gesturing toward the counter. “You can put them there.”
You do, carefully setting everything down. And then… nothing. Your mission is complete. You hover, suddenly aware that you hadn’t planned beyond deliver baked goods. Well, you kind of imagined that he’d tell you to have a set and enjoy the goods together.
But Han is pacing now, grabbing his keys, checking his phone. Definitely getting ready to leave.
“Are you heading out?” you ask, aiming for casual again.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m late for band practice.”
“Oh,” you reply, nodding. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”
You turn toward the door, ready to make a graceful exit—only to stop short.
Han pulls his T-shirt over his head like you’re not even there. Not even the slightest bit of hesitance. Then, it’s just skin, warm and honey skin—toned, solid, tattoos spilling over his right shoulder and down his side. Too bad you can’t read the rest of the tattoo as it’s disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans that is… slung low… on his hips. Your eyes pivot to the way his pelvic bones narrowing down to—
You gulp and look away immediately. “Sorry—sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
He chuckles, soft and easy. He grabs a clean T-shirt and seamlessly puts it on. “I should be the one apologizing. Didn’t exactly treat you like a proper guest. I’m in a bit of a rush.”
“It’s fine,” you say quickly, mortified and flustered and very aware of your pulse. You step toward the door to get out of his way.
He grabs the coffee cup, lifting it slightly. “I’ll eat the cookies later. Thanks again.”
You nod, mumble something that might be no problem, and the two of you step out into the hallway together. You move toward your door, suddenly very invested in unlocking it slowly and calmly like a normal person.
Before you can, Han steps closer and gently catches your arm. The contact is brief—but it sends a jolt straight through you.
“Next time,” he says, raising the coffee cup with a grin, “it’s my treat.”
Then he’s gone, striding toward the elevator. The doors slide shut, and he flashes you one last smile before disappearing.
You wait until you’re safely inside your apartment to let out a squeal.
God. That was a rush.
You press your hand to your arm where he touched you, where the warmth lingers, skin buzzing like it’s been struck by lightning.
And a tad bit romantic.
-
Your desk feels familiar again, the half-finished sentence blinking patiently at you like it knows you’ll come back eventually.
Out of curiosity, purely out of curiosity—you open a browser tab and type in the band name Han mentioned. You click the first result and—
Chaos.
Loud, unfiltered, crashing straight into your apartment like it owns the place. It’s messy and raw. You let it play, tapping your fingers against the desk, imagining Han in the middle of it all—guitar slung low, lost in the noise.
You didn’t hear it until you see the door swings open.
“What god-awful sound is that?!”
Hyunjin stands in your doorway, jacket still on, keys dangling from his fingers, face twisted in genuine offense.
You shrug as you stand from your chair, entirely unbothered. “Why? It’s cool.”
His forehead wrinkles like you’ve just spoken another language. He opens his mouth and closes it, then sighs. “Can you turn it down? I need to tell you something.”
You grin and comply, pausing the music. The sudden quiet feels loud in comparison. You turn to face him properly.
“Thanks,” he says, then clears his throat. “So uh…”
“Yeah?” you ask, letting him know he has your full attention.
“Archie has a school play this weekend.”
“Oh,” you say, immediately brightening.
“It’s this Saturday. He asked if you’d come.”
“Yes,” you answer without even thinking.
Hyunjin blinks. “You don’t have to if you’re busy.”
You wave him off. “Romance can wait for a day.”
That earns you a soft, fond chuckle from Hyunjin. He holds his hand out at you, showing you a foil-wrapped packet he’s been holding in his hand.
“What’s this?”
“Egg sandwich,” he says. “Archie asked me to make it. I figured I’d make one for you too.”
The second you feel the warmth and catch a whiff at it, you tear the foil open and take a bite, humming immediately, eyes fluttering a little at how good it is.
“This is so good,” you say, mouth full, completely unashamed.
Hyunjin shakes his head, amused. “Enjoy it.”
He heads back toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Saturday. Ten a.m.”
“Saturday, ten,” you repeat, still chewing.
You hear his laugh—warm, real—just before the door clicks shut behind him.
You swallow, smile to yourself, and sit back down at your desk, crumbs on your fingers and music still paused on your screen.
Everything feels… full. In a way you hadn’t realized you were missing.
-
You don’t usually dress like this.
Most days, you live in comfort and practicality—things you can sit in for hours, things that don’t demand to be seen. But tonight, you have to put a little effort as you have a meeting with your agent which guarantee an adult conversation that doesn’t involve coffee orders or five-year-old bedtime routines.
You settle on a simple dress, just enough to feel intentional. A little color on your cheeks, concealer to cover the sleep you didn’t get, a swipe of lipstick to brighten the whole look. You study yourself in the mirror for a second longer than usual, then decide it’s good enough.
When you step out into the hallway, the elevator arrives like it’s been summoned on cue.
The doors open to reveal Hyunjin and Archie—hands linked, a grocery bag hooked over Hyunjin’s arm.
“Hold it!” you call, hurrying forward.
Hyunjin reaches out and keeps the doors open without a second thought.
Archie looks up at you, eyes going wide. “You look beautiful. Like a princess,” he says, completely earnest, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.
You stop short, flustered. “Thank you so much, Archie,” you reply softly, smiling at him.
Hyunjin glances at you but his eyes seem to betray him as they sweep over you, head to toe and back to your face. Something flickers across his face before he masks it with a small smile. “Where are you heading?”
“Meeting my agent,” you say, already stepping into the elevator. “And I’m running a little late.”
As the elevator descends, you press your back lightly against the wall, heart still fluttering—not from nerves about the meeting, but from the way Archie’s voice had sounded so sure.
Beautiful. Like a princess.
You breathe out slowly and straighten your shoulders.
Tonight, at least, you believe it.
-
The bar is dim in that intentional way. You sit across from your agent, legs crossed, fingers wrapped around a glass of water you ordered on purpose, laptop bag tucked neatly by your feet.
She flips through her notes while you talk. You tell her about the new book. The premise, the tone, the themes you’re circling. You don’t give away too much, just enough to prove that the story exists, that it has potential, that you’re not stalled even if it sometimes feels like you are.
She listens, nodding, humming thoughtfully. “Okay,” she says eventually, satisfied. “It’s taking shape. I can hear it.”
Relief loosens your shoulders and the meeting winds down quickly after that.
She checks her phone, grimaces. “I’ve got another thing I need to run to.”
“That’s fine,” you say, already gathering your bag.
“But,” she adds, standing, “you’re having a drink before you go.”
“Oh—no, I wasn’t planning to—”
Too late as she steers you toward the bar with a firm hand on your elbow like she’s done this a hundred times before. “Sit,” she says, pointing to a stool.
You sigh but comply, sliding onto the seat. You don’t plan on drinking as you have Archie’s play to attend tomorrow and you can’t show up with a hangover.
She flags down the bartender with a sharp lift of her fingers. “Make her your finest cocktail. And don’t let her leave until she finishes it.”
“I really don’t need—” you start.
Then you hear the bartender’s voice. “Got it.”
You turn on your stool and Han stands behind the bar. Your brain short-circuits so hard you almost laugh.
Your agent doesn’t notice as she’s already slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Enjoy,” she says cheerfully, before disappearing into the crowd.
Han lifts an eyebrow, a slow smirk curling at his lips as recognition settles in. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, eyes locking onto yours.
“Clearly,” you manage.
He reaches for a shaker, smoothly pouring the concoction into it. “Guess I’ve been instructed not to let you escape.”
His gaze flicks back up to you, amused. “I’ll make sure of it.”
You realize, somewhere between the ice clinking in the shaker and the easy way Han moves behind the bar, that you’re barely paying attention to the drink in front of you.
You watch him instead. The way he takes orders, leaning in just enough to hear people over the music. The way his hands work automatically, confident, practiced. He looks like he belongs here in a way that’s different from the next-door neighbor Han, and the contrast makes your chest feel tight in a way you’re still learning to name.
When he finally comes back to you, he glances at your glass. “You haven’t finished it,” he says, mock-serious. “Don’t tell me you don’t like it.”
Your cheeks warm but you quickly say, “No, the drink is fine.”
You convince him by taking a small sip of it, wincing at the sourness biting at your tongue.
He smirks and tilts his head. He drops his voice just a notch as he adds, “or are you just trying to linger?”
That does it. You straighten on the stool, flustered. “I—no. I mean—yes, it’s good. The drink. It’s good.”
He grins like he’s won something.
“So,” you say, eager to redirect, “do you work here?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” he replies. “Lame band by day, lame job by night.”
You laugh. “You really love that word.”
He shrugs. “How about you?”
“I was meeting my agent,” you say. “Talking about my lame book.”
That earns you a soft chuckle. “Seems like we’re both very successful people.”
Somehow, your glass is empty before you realize it. Han notices immediately.
“Another?” he asks.
You hesitate—then decide you’re already here, already buzzed, already smiling more than usual. You’re sure one more drink won’t be a problem. “Okay. Just one more.”
He makes it while looking at you this time, not rushing, like there’s nowhere else he needs to be. When he’s done, he grabs another glass and pours something for himself.
“Wait,” he says.
You pause with your hand wrapped around the glass.
“I’ll be drinking with you this time,” he says, taking a glass and pouring liquor into it.
He raises his glass toward you. “Cheers.”
You clink glasses, take a sip, feel warmth bloom low in your chest.
“So,” he says, leaning forward on the counter, close enough that you can see the little mole on his cheek, “you gonna tell me about this book?”
Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the dim lights. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you like he actually wants to know.
You smile, slow and teasing. “If I tell you,” you say as you lean forward, “I’d have to kill you.”
He laughs and it’s loud and unguarded. “Didn’t know you were like this.”
You bite your lip, surprised at yourself too. “Neither did I.”
And for the first time, you realize you’re not pretending.
This version of you—the one flirting back, the one lingering on a barstool, the one letting romance exist without trying to write it into shape—she’s real and she’s having fun.
The flirting settles into something easy from there. Small smiles, lingering looks, the kind of banter that hums quietly beneath the noise of the bar. Han leans in when he talks to you. You laugh a little more than usual. Time slips by without either of you really noticing.
When he gestures toward your glass again, eyebrow lifting, you already know what he’s going to ask. “Third round?”
You hesitate—then shake your head, regretful but firm. “I can’t. I’m a lightweight. If I have another, I’ll be drunk.”
“Then I’ll take you home,” he easily says with a smirk and crinkle in his eyes. “Perks of being neighbors.”
The way he says it makes your stomach flip. You smile and honestly, tempted because you want to say yes. You want to stay. To keep talking, keep hovering in this warm, buzzing space between possibility and intention.
But you remember Archie’s play and you promised Hyunjin that you’ll come.
“I really can’t,” you say gently. “I promised someone I’d be up early.”
Han nods, understanding settling in without complaint. “Fair.”
“I should close my tab,” you add.
“I’ve got it,” he says, already reaching for the register.
You insist anyway, sliding your card across the counter. He gives in with a soft laugh, hands it back once everything’s done.
“Get home safe,” he tells you.
You smile. “I will. Thank you.”
As you step away from the bar, you glance back just in time to see him disappear into the crowd—slipping between bodies, back into the rhythm of the place like he was never yours to begin with.
Your heart is still racing as you head for the door.
And somehow, you’re okay with that.
-
The kindergarten hallway is chaos in its purest form.
Parents crowd every available inch, teachers herding small bodies in mismatched costumes with the patience of saints. You weave your way through it all, scanning faces until you spot Hyunjin exactly where he said he’d be—standing just outside Archie’s classroom, hands in his pockets, looking only mildly overwhelmed.
You reach him and grab his arm. “I’m here, I’m here.”
He turns, breaks into a smile, and immediately hands you a tumbler. “For you.”
You scoff, grateful. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Figured you’d need it.”
Soon enough, the teacher starts ushering everyone toward the small auditorium. You and Hyunjin end up in the middle rows, close enough to the stage that Archie will be able to spot you, close enough that Hyunjin keeps glancing around like he’s trying to mentally map every possible angle.
A couple seated nearby turns toward him. “You’re Archie’s dad, right?” the man says.
Hyunjin stands to greet them, and you rise automatically with him, offering a polite smile. The woman looks between the two of you, eyes warm with curiosity. “I’ve seen you picking Archie up a few times,” she says to you. “Are you his mom?”
“It’s okay,” Hyunjin assures her easily, and after a few more pleasantries, they return to their seats.
You and Hyunjin sit back down. You lean in, whispering, “Did she thinks I look old enough to have a child?”
He snorts softly. “And you’ve only realized it now?”
You elbow him without thinking.
He yelps—loud.
“Shh,” he stage-whispers immediately, rubbing his side. “It’s about to start.”
The lights dim, chatter quiets, and the curtain begins to lift.
Archie stands there in a tiny bunny costume—floppy ears slightly crooked, face paint smudged just enough to make it even cuter. You bring a hand to your mouth without realizing it, eyes wide.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. “He’s so cute.”
Beside you, Hyunjin is already in full dad mode. Camera up. Finger clicking nonstop. Leaning forward in his seat like he can somehow get closer through sheer will alone. You stifle a laugh as you watch him, completely unapologetic, documenting every second.
Then Archie’s eyes scan the audience and the moment he spots you and his dad, his whole face lights up. He sings louder. Dances harder. Arms swinging with enthusiasm that has nothing to do with choreography and everything to do with being seen.
This is what people meant when they say showing up matters. You feel something warm bloom in your chest as you wave subtly, smiling so hard your cheeks ache.
Hyunjin lowers the camera just long enough to catch it too, eyes shining.
The performance is chaos in the best way—off-key singing, uneven dancing, pure joy radiating from the stage and when it ends, the room erupts into cheers.
Everything feels full. Loud. Soft. And dare you say… kind of romantic.
-
Lunch turns into a small celebration without anyone needing to say it out loud.
The three of you sit around the dining table, plates of spaghetti in front of you. You keep gushing about the play because how could you not? You’re telling Archie how amazing he was on stage, how brave, how cute, how the bunny ears were the best part. You reach over with a napkin, gently wiping sauce from the corner of his mouth.
Hyunjin watches the whole thing with a quiet smile, elbow propped on the table, eyes soft.
Archie, meanwhile, tries very hard to act cool about the praise. He shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like he didn’t just steal the entire show.
“Do you know how cute you were with your bunny ears and painted nose?” you ask, dabbing the spaghetti sauce on his chin.
“I know,” Archie answers without a beat.
You and Hyunjin exchange a look, both surprised and amused before letting out chuckles.
Then, Archie looks at his dad. “Daddy, can I have ice cream after this?”
Hyunjin doesn’t even blink. “I think you have enough for today, don’t you think?”
Archie frowns.
You lean forward on the table, leaning close to Hyunjin. “But he worked really hard. Plays are exhausting.”
Archie’s eyes light up. He turns fully toward Hyunjin and puts on his best puppy eyes, voice dropping into a soft, pleading whine. “Pleaaase?”
You join him, tilting your head, widening your eyes in exaggerated innocence. “Please…”
Hyunjin looks between the two of you. His resolve lasts exactly two seconds.
“…Fine,” he sighs. “Ice cream.”
“Yay!” you and Archie cheer in unison.
Hyunjin shakes his head, defeated but smiling as he’s walking to the fridge to get the hard-earned ice cream for the three of you.
The afternoon stretches gently after lunch and nap time always wins. Hyunjin gently lays Archie into his bed, adjusting the blanket, brushing hair from his forehead with a tenderness that makes your chest ache just a little.
In the kitchen, you pour yourself a glass of water, suddenly aware of how tired you are—how keeping up with a five-year-old is a full-body workout.
Hyunjin joins you, voice low. “Can I have a glass?”
You nod, pour another glass, and the two of you settle back at the dining table, shoulders relaxed, the day finally catching up.
“So,” he says casually, “how’s the romance going?”
You snort softly. “Straight to it, huh?”
He shrugs.
You tell him about last night. About meeting your agent. About Han. About the drinks, the flirting, the way it felt different from anything you’d expected. How the whole thing felt serendipitous.
Hyunjin listens, then smirks. “Didn’t think you even knew how to flirt.”
You smack his arm lightly.
He yelps quietly this time and immediately clamps a hand over his mouth, glancing toward Archie’s room.
“Worth it,” you whisper.
He grins. “So what happens next?”
You shrug, staring into your glass. “I don’t know. Potentially, a date? I just… don’t know if he’ll ask.”
“What do you even like about him?” Hyunjin asks, genuinely curious.
“He’s cool but also… hot,” you pause to let out a shy giggle. “He’s confident. I like how he carries himself, the intensity.” You start listing things you like about Han but it all sounds familiar even as you say it.
Hyunjin raises an eyebrow. “You know a lot for someone you’re not close with.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m getting there.”
He smiles, satisfied. “Good luck then.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward, but soft. The kind that settles after a good day. But then reality nudges you — writing to do, book to finish.
“I should go,” you say, pushing yourself up your chair.
“Wait a second,” Hyunjin says, getting up from his chair and reaching for his bag.
A while later, he returns with a paper in his hand and hands it to you. From the glasses and the way he colored the hair the same as yours, you believe it’s Archie’s drawing of you.
“His teacher shared the drawings Archie made at school,” Hyunjin shares.
When you look up from admiring the drawing, you find Hyunjin’s eyes on you, soft and earnest.
“Thank you for coming today,” he says quietly. “Archie was sad his mom couldn’t make it. It meant a lot to him that you came. To me.”
Your throat tightens, not expecting that your presence meant a great deal to someone. “You know I’d do anything for Archie,” you say honestly. Then, playfully, “Not for you.”
He chuckles. “Sure.”
You fold the drawing and hold it close to your chest. “I’m going, okay?”
“Yeah,” Hyunjin nods but there’s this look on him that seems reluctant to let you leave.
You linger by the doorway to flash him a smile and say bye. “Don’t miss me too much, yeah?”
Hyunjin grins. “I’ll try.”
You walk out of his apartment, cross the hall and step back into your own. Before sitting down to write, you stick Archie’s drawing on the wall next to your desk. Every time you stop and see it, you can’t help but smile.
-
It’s Wednesday’s afternoon and you’re tucked into your usual corner at Hyunjin’s coffee shop, laptop open, fingers moving steadily. Words blur into paragraphs, paragraphs into pages. You don’t realize how long you’ve been there until you lift your cup and find it empty. You frown at it like it personally betrayed you because you really need the caffeine.
Before you can stand, a shadow falls over the table. Hyunjin appears, already setting down a fresh cup of coffee and a small tray of madeleines, warm and dusted lightly with sugar.
“Oh—thank you,” you say, looking up.
He just smiles, then takes your empty cup and disappears behind the counter.
You take your first sip, humming softly in approval, when you hear the giggling. As expected, a group of girls by the counter accept their drinks from Hyunjin, whispering to each other, cheeks flushed, eyes following him a little too obviously. You shake your head with a fond kind of disbelief.
Hyunjin is completely oblivious to the effect he has on people — girls, specifically.
The door opens and your brain stalls when you see the person who’s just stepped into the coffee shop. Han with sunlight briefly framing him before the door shuts behind him. You don’t know why your first instinct is to duck, but you try anyway—lowering your head, hiding behind your laptop like that’s going to save you. Too late though as his eyes land on you instantly and flashes you a smile.
Shit.
He heads to the counter and you watch as he and Hyunjin exchange pleasantries before taking his coffee order — Ice Americano, less ice with extra shot. While waiting, Han walks straight over and drops into the chair across from you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You smile but it comes out a little stiff. “Hey,” you weakly greet.
He flashes you his gummy smile. “Hey, what’re you doing?”
“Writing,” you say casually, like your heart didn’t just kick into a faster rhythm.
“Can I see?”
You scoff. “I’d still have to kill you.”
He chuckles softly, then goes quiet. He looks at you, noticing something on you. “You cut your hair.”
Well, you cut it like days ago but it feels nice that he finally noticed it. You nod, suddenly hyper-aware of it. Of how it sits today. Of how you styled it without thinking much about why.
“It looks good,” he says.
Before you can respond, Hyunjin’s voice cuts through the shop. “Han!”
Hearing his name on Hyunjin’s lips makes something odd twist in your chest.
The chair scrapes as Han stands. “That’s me.”
He excuses himself to grab his coffee, and the second his back is turned, you glance at your laptop screen—using the dark reflection to fix your hair, smooth it behind your ear, adjust yourself just enough.
When Han comes back, you pretend to fiddle with your laptop.
He stops by your table again with a coffee in his hand. “Hey, uh—my lame band is playing at this bar on Friday. I’d love for you to come.”
He tilts his head and playfully adds, “If you’re up for seeing a lame band.”
You chuckle, pretending to think about it. “Yeah, I’d love to see your lame band.”
“It’s Friday night,” he adds.
“Friday night,” you repeat, nodding.
“I’ll see you then,” he says with a smile, satisfied, then heads for the door.
You wish him a good day, and just like that, he’s gone. You wait exactly three seconds before abandoning your table and marching to the counter.
“Oh, my God. Did you hear that?” you whisper-rant at Hyunjin, who’s cleaning the espresso machine.
“What? I only heard him ask you to see his lame band,” he says.
“He asked me out.”
Hyunjin pauses. “That’s… not what I heard.”
“It’s indirect,” you insist. “But it… is.”
He hums, unconvinced. You decide to ignore that part entirely and focus on the important thing—you were right. You’re getting closer to Han.
“That’s good then,” Hyunjin says with a small smile before moving away to hand off another order.
You don’t let yourself think too hard about his reaction but walk back to your chair. You stare at your laptop, trying to continue writing but your mind is already elsewhere.
Friday night. What to prepare. What to wear. What to expect.
-
Friday night arrives faster than you expect.
You stand in front of your mirror longer than usual, tugging at fabric, tilting your head, changing your mind twice before settling on something that feels right. Something special but not loud about it. Effortless, you tell yourself. Like you didn’t think about this all week.
You smooth the material down, check your reflection again. Good. You look like yourself. Maybe a slightly braver version.
Your phone buzzes on the counter, face-down, and your heart does a stupid little jump even though you haven’t checked it yet.
You’re buzzing, restless, excited. For the past two days, your imagination hasn’t given you a moment of peace.
You imagine walking beside Han down a dim street, shoulders brushing. You imagine him on stage, guitar slung low, eyes finding you in the crowd and staying there. You imagine him stepping offstage, a little flushed, walking straight toward you like the rest of the room doesn’t exist. You imagine drinks. Laughter. The easy kind that comes from being a little buzzed and a little brave. You imagine him leaning in close at the end of the night, voice low, mouth warm against yours. You imagine him coming back to your place. You imagine—
You stop yourself with a sharp inhale, heat rushing to your cheeks.
Okay. Enough.
You shake your head, laugh under your breath, and turn back to the mirror. You adjust your hair, add one last touch. Just enough to feel confident. Just enough to feel like tonight matters.
You don’t need to imagine anymore. You grab your bag, take one last look at yourself, and smile.
Tonight, romance is going to happen.
-
The bar is louder than you expected.
Not bad—just… a lot. The music vibrates through the floor, bass-heavy and messy, and Han’s band takes the stage with confidence that makes the crowd cheer before they even start. You watch him from where you stand near the back, guitar slung low, hair falling into his eyes. He looks good up there like this is exactly where he belongs.
You smile. You really try to.
But as the set goes on, you realize you’re not listening for the music anymore—you’re listening for how it makes you feel. And the feeling never quite arrives. The songs blur together, loud and chaotic, and while the crowd is jumping and shouting lyrics back at him, you’re nursing your drink and wondering how long you’re supposed to stay before it’s polite to leave.
When Han finally comes offstage, he’s flushed and glowing, adrenaline still buzzing through him.
“Did you like it?” he asks, hopeful.
You nod. “Yeah. You were great.”
And he was. That’s the frustrating part.
He introduces you to his friends and they’re loud and affectionate but already halfway drunk and suddenly you’re bar-hopping, squeezing into cramped spaces, shouting conversations over music you don’t know.
Han keeps a hand at your lower back, guiding you through the crowd, ordering drinks without asking what you want.
It’s not unkind. It’s just… unfamiliar.
At one point, you’re sitting on a sticky barstool, watching him laugh with his bandmates, and it hits you—this isn’t a date. You’re not being chosen. You’re being folded into his night.
You thought you knew him. Or maybe you thought you wrote him.
The version of Han in your head is quieter, more attentive, someone who’d lean in to hear you speak instead of leaning away to greet someone new. You realize, with a strange calm, that none of that is fair—to him or to you.
When he finally looks back at you and asks, “You good?”
you smile and say, “Yeah. Just tired.”
It’s the truth. Just not the whole one.
Later, when he walks you home and kisses your cheek instead of your lips, you feel relief instead of disappointment.
When you close your door behind you, the silence feels kinder than the noise ever did. You sit on your bed and laugh softly to yourself. Not because it went badly. But because it didn’t go wrong—it just didn’t go right.
You don’t cry. You just stare at the wall and think about how you’re going to need time to understand what that means.
-
The days after Friday blur together quietly.
You’re back at your desk, laptop open, fingers moving more out of habit than inspiration. The room is dim except for the warm pool of light from your desk lamp, the kind of night where the world feels paused just enough for thoughts to get loud.
You’re mid-sentence when a knock sounds at your door. Your heart jumps—annoyingly hopeful, annoyingly wary.
You move to the door, peeking through the peephole first because you’re not ready. Not ready to see Han. Not ready to smile politely and pretend you didn’t dismantle an entire version of him in your head.
Thankfully, it’s Hyunjin.
Relief washes through you so quickly you almost laugh. You open the door and step aside to let him in. “Hey, come in.”
He softly smiles when he sees you, but there’s something else there too—a quiet concern that sits just beneath the surface.
“So Archie is at his mom’s,” he says instead, lifting the plastic bag in his hand. “And I can’t finish all these dumplings myself.”
You smile and usher him toward the kitchen. “That sounds like a you problem.”
“Thought I’d share the burden,” he replies easily.
You eat in comfortable silence, the clink of chopsticks against plates filling the gaps. It feels grounding, the simplicity of it.
After a while, Hyunjin glances at you and asks, “How’s the book going?”
“I’ve been writing a lot lately,” you simply answer.
“Is that why I haven’t seen you much?”
You nod.
He hums, accepting it, and the quiet settles again—this time heavier, waiting. Then, gently, “How was the date?”
You sigh before you even realize you’re doing it. Your shoulders slump, and you stare at your plate for a moment longer than necessary before finally speaking.
“I think I’m stupid,” you say, letting out a soft, sarcastic laugh. “For believing there’s such a thing as a dream man.”
Hyunjin’s expression sharpens, not with judgment, but concern. “Did Han do something?”
You shake your head. “No. That’s the thing. It’s not him.”
“Then who?”
“My expectations,” you say quietly. “I projected this whole character onto him. Built this romance in my head and expected it to just… happen.”
You laugh again, but it’s hollow. “So I guess that’s on me. Maybe I don’t deserve romance after all.”
Hyunjin’s chair scrapes softly as he shifts closer. His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, warm and steady, rubbing small, comforting circles into your back.
“What makes you think that?” he asks gently.
You don’t answer right away.
“You’re so busy looking for romance,” he continues, “that you don’t realize how romantic the things you do already are.”
You turn your head to look at him, comforted but unconvinced, and he notices. He always does.
“I watch you work and know how hard you worked on your writing.”
You scoff lightly. “You’re biased.”
“And your book,” he adds. “It feels warm. Like… it cares about people.”
You shake your head. “How would you even know?”
He hesitates for half a second and admits, “I read it.”
You snort. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” he insists, smiling sheepishly. “Archie always wants to know what I’m reading, so I keep it in my bedside drawer and only read it before bed.”
That gets a real laugh out of you, shaking your head but warmth blooming in your chest despite yourself.
Then Hyunjin’s hand moves from your shoulder to your jaw. He cups your face gently, thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch.
“You’re amazing,” he says, looking straight into your eyes. “You write beautifully. What you create entertains people. It warms them. What could be more romantic than that?”
Something in you cracks open—not painfully, but softly. Your heart trembles at how genuine he is, how steady, how sure. How he knows the words you needed to hear.
You place your hand over his and lean into his touch. “Thank you,” you whisper.
For a moment, the two of you staying like that, sitting in a comfort that doesn’t need imagining to exist.
Another moment later, you rinse the last plate and set it carefully on the rack while Hyunjin dries his hands on a dish towel, leaning against the counter like he belongs there—like he always has.
“Oh,” he says casually, as if it just crossed his mind. “I’m taking Archie to the aquarium this weekend.”
He adds quickly, a teasing lilt in his voice, “I know there’s absolutely nothing romantic about going to the aquarium with a divorced dad and his kid. But… I thought it might help take your mind off things a little.”
It is a good idea since you’ve been cooped up in the apartment for the last few days but still, you pretend to consider it for a moment just to tease him. Then you break into a smile and nod, “…Yeah, I’d like that.”
Hyunjin nods, clearly pleased but pretending not to be. “Cool. I’ll pack lunch,” he says, already planning. “You can treat us to ice cream.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion, was it?”
“Nope.”
You sigh dramatically. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”
When everything’s done, he pauses and leans over the dining table, hands propped against it. “Are you going to continue writing tonight?”
“It seems like it, yeah,” you answer.
“Just… make sure you rest too,” he says.
You promise with a nod, even if you’re not sure you’ll keep it.
At the door, you thank him again and reach for the handle, but before you can open it, Hyunjin gently pulls you into a hug. It’s long and tight, like he’s trying to pass something to you through sheer closeness. Warmth. Comfort. His real, solid presence.
You don’t resist. You melt into it, arms wrapping around him, breathing him in, catching the faint smell of coffee clinging to his clothes. It feels nice. Too nice.
When you pull back, he doesn’t let you go right away. His hands stay on you, just enough to keep you close. Your eyes meet and for a split second, something sparks right in your chest.
Hyunjin swallows, then murmurs, “Goodnight.”
Only then does he let go.
“Goodnight,” you breathe back, still a little breathless as he steps out and the door clicks shut behind him.
You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, heart thudding, unsure of what just happened—
Only that it stole your breath anyway.
-
The aquarium entrance looms ahead, glass doors glinting under the sun, and Archie is already bouncing on the balls of his feet. His hands are warm in yours, small fingers threaded tightly as he wedges himself between you and Hyunjin.
“Ready?” Hyunjin asks, glancing down at him.
Before either of you can answer, Archie jumps.
You and Hyunjin instinctively lift your arms, hoisting him up for a few seconds, his laugh bursting out loud and uncontained before you set him back down.
“Again!” Archie demands immediately.
You exchange a look with Hyunjin, his mouth already twitching with a smile and do it again. And again. Until Archie’s laughter turns into breathless giggles and the line starts moving.
The moment you step into the aquarium, Archie goes quiet. His eyes widen, reflecting the blue glow of the tanks as fish glide past the glass like living brushstrokes. He lets go of your hand without warning, darting forward with a gasp.
“Wait—Archie!” you call, hurrying after him.
He presses his face close to the glass, pointing excitedly, words tumbling out too fast for you to catch. You slow him down, gently steering him from tank to tank, trying and failing to keep pace with his excitement.
Behind you, Hyunjin lingers, unbothered. He lifts his camera, capturing the way Archie’s mouth drops open in awe, the way you crouch beside him, explaining fish names you half-remember.
“Are you even helping?” you call over your shoulder.
Hyunjin chuckles, snapping another photo. “You’re doing great.”
You shake your head, breathless and smiling, while Archie tugs at your sleeve, already dragging you forward. In the next exhibit, you take the camera from Hyunjin without asking, fingers already curling around the familiar weight of it.
“Hey—” he protests.
“It’s your turn!” You say as you aim the camera at him.
Then Archie gasps, pointing at the massive tank ahead, and Hyunjin lifts him up without another word. Archie settles easily in his arms, one small hand braced on Hyunjin’s shoulder as he leans closer to the glass.
Schools of fish glide past them, slow and hypnotic, and something bigger passes in the shadows, making Archie suck in a sharp breath.
“Dad,” he whispers, reverent.
You raise the camera and Hyunjin doesn’t even realize you’re taking pictures at first. His head is tilted slightly toward Archie, his arm secure around him, thumb rubbing absentminded circles against Archie’s back.
There’s a softness in his face you don’t see often—unguarded, fond, full in a quiet way. You press the shutter again and again, capturing the warmth of it, the way love looks when it’s lived in.
When Hyunjin finally glances over and notices you, he raises an eyebrow. “You done?”
“Not even close,” you say, snapping one last photo as Archie laughs at something swimming past.
You move on to the touching pool after that, Archie skipping ahead while sucking on a juice box, already announcing to anyone who’ll listen that there are baby sharks inside.
You peer into the shallow tank, watching the small, sleek shapes glide through the water. “I don’t know about this.”
Hyunjin grins. “They’re harmless.”
You shake your head, folding your arms. “Easy for you to say.”
Without hesitation, Hyunjin rolls up his sleeve and dips his hand into the water. One of the baby sharks swims close, brushing past his fingers. He doesn’t flinch.
“See? Totally fine.”
Purely out of curiosity, you slowly lower your hand into the pool. The water is cool, your pulse loud in your ears as a small shark swims toward you. You watch it intently, holding your breath—
Hyunjin suddenly yelps and at the same time, his hand shoots out and grabs yours under the water.
You scream, jerking your hand back so fast you nearly stumble. “Hyunjin!”
He bursts out laughing, loud and unapologetic, doubling over as you stand there mortified, heart racing.
“Oh my god,” you hiss, slapping his arm again and again. “What is wrong with you?!”
“I couldn’t help it,” he laughs, failing to dodge your hits.
Archie giggles uncontrollably from the side, juice carton forgotten in his hand. “You scared her!”
“You’re both terrible,” you mutter, cheeks burning as a few nearby visitors glance over with amused smiles.
Hyunjin finally lifts his hands in surrender, still grinning. “Worth it.”
You glare at him, but it doesn’t stick. Not with Archie laughing like that. Not with the warmth still lingering from the moment before. Still, you give Hyunjin one last slap for good measure.
“Absolutely not forgiven,” you say but you can see Hyunjin’s smile only goes wider.
By the time the three of you arrived home, Archie is completely out—head tucked under Hyunjin’s chin, mouth slightly open, limbs loose from a day filled with too much excitement and too much food.
You unlock the door into Hyunjin’s apartment with the spare keys you have and hold it open while Hyunjin steps inside. He heads straight for Archie’s room, disappearing down the hallway, and you move to set the backpack down, lining up the jacket, placing the little sneakers neatly by the door.
The sight of Hyunjin’s camera catches your attention so you pick it up and allow yourself to sit on the sofa.
There are so many pictures of Archie—him pressing his nose to the glass, arms spread wide like he’s trying to become a fish; him crouching near a tank, mimicking the posture of a stingray; him baring his teeth proudly like the statue of the sharks next to him. You smile without realizing it.
Then there are photos of you and Archie together. One where you’re pointing excitedly at something in a tank while Archie looks up at you like you’ve just told him a secret. Another where you’re laughing, head thrown back, completely unaware.
You pause on one photo in particular of you standing slightly to the side, Archie right next to you, both of you staring at a tank full of glowing jellyfish. The light bathes everything in blue and violet, soft and dreamy.
It’s… aesthetic. Hyunjin takes beautiful pictures. Which also annoys you because he’s just so good at everything.
You scroll again and realize the next few are unmistakably the ones you took. You can tell because they’re not as composed. Slightly crooked. Too close. Taken with a kind of rushed affection.
You continue scrolling and then stop when you find a picture of you. Your face turned toward the glass, expression relaxed, almost thoughtful. The glow from the tank kisses your cheekbones, your eyes soft, unguarded. There are more like it—small moments, stolen from angles you didn’t know he was watching from.
They’re different. Taken with such great care. Tender. Almost… romantic.
“You know,” Hyunjin’s voice cuts in, amused, “I should’ve taken a picture of you freaking out at the touching pool.”
You yelp softly and turn, immediately slapping his arm. “Don’t you dare.”
He laughs as he sits beside you on the sofa, close enough that your shoulders nearly touch. You hand him the camera back, then lean into the cushions with a long sigh. “You know,” you say, staring at the ceiling, “your life is way more romantic than mine.”
Hyunjin tilts his head. “How is that so?”
You count them off without even looking at him. “You have a beautiful, loving son. You own a coffee shop. You brew your own coffee. You bake. You have… secret admirers. You take beautiful photos like this.” You gesture vaguely. “And that’s not even all of it.”
Hyunjin hums thoughtfully and then, narrows his eyes at you. “Secret admirers?”
You grin and bump your shoulder lightly against his. “The girls at the coffee shop. The giggling. The whispering. The very obvious swooning.”
He scoffs, trying to look indifferent. “I don’t notice that.”
“Oh, come on,” you tease. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”
He chuckles, shaking his head, but you catch the faintest hint of pink at the tips of his ears.
You shift closer without really thinking about it—your legs tucked under you now, Hyunjin’s shoulder warm against yours.
Hyunjin clears his throat, then says, almost too casually, “You know… there are a few romantic things about you too.”
“A few, huh?” you scoff, turning toward him.
He smiles, that soft one he only ever wears around you, and leans back into the sofa. “A few. Yeah.”
You cross your arms together, unimpressed yet curious. “Let’s hear it then.”
“I think it’s romantic when you’re writing at the coffee shop,” he starts with a soft smile. “You don’t notice anything around you—your coffee going cold, people coming and going. The sunlight hits you just right and it’s like you’re… glowing. Like you’re somewhere else.”
Your breath catches, just a little. Not expecting that.
“I think it’s romantic the way you use words,” he continues. “You make people feel things. You make me feel things, even when you don’t realize it.”
You swallow because your chest suddenly feels tight.
“I think it’s romantic when you enjoy my coffee and my madeleines like they’re something special,” he adds, quieter now. “When you come over and I find you and Archie on the floor, coloring or laughing like you belong there.”
His eyes meet yours.
“And I think it’s romantic that you’re always there,” he says. “When I need help. When Archie needs someone. When I’m too tired to ask.”
The air between you thickens, crackles.
Then, softer, almost vulnerable, he says, “And I think… there’s something romantic between you and me.”
You smile shyly, heart stuttering. “You and me?”
“Yeah,” Hyunjin doesn’t even try to hide it.
You decide to be playful about it. “Okay, I guess we’re… kind of romantic.”
He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he leans in just a fraction, gaze deepening, voice dropping low and warm.
“Should we make it more romantic?”
Your heart pounds so loud you’re sure he can hear it. But there’s no panic. No urge to pull away. Just this steady, grounding warmth like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
“I guess we can make it romantic,” you answer, breathless and a little trembling.
Hyunjin’s hand comes up gently, like he’s afraid of startling you, and then, the next thing you know, his lips are on yours, soft and plush. The kiss is tender, almost innocent, like a promise instead of a question.
You melt into it, eyes fluttering shut. Because this—
This feels romantic.
-
You pull away first, breath shaky, your hand flying up to cover your lips like you need to physically hold yourself together.
Hyunjin’s lips are a little swollen, a little red, still glossy from the kiss, and the sight of him looking worried like that almost makes you laugh. “What? Did that feel weird?” he asks quietly.
You’re still processing the way your heart is racing, the way your body feels warm and light and grounded all at once. Then you nod.
“It feels weird because…” you say honestly. “It doesn’t feel weird at all.”
He exhales a laugh, soft and relieved, shaking his head like he should’ve known better. He doesn’t rush you, rush this moment. Then, carefully, like he’s asking permission with every movement, he reaches up and brushes your hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. His fingers linger there, warm against your skin.
You don’t expect to feel this with Hyunjin, whom you’ve known for years and you’ve comfortably shared part of your life with. You hesitate for a second and then glance up at him through your lashes. “Can we uh… can we try again?”
His smile this time is slow, sure. “Yeah.”
You scoot closer, close your eyes, and lean in first. And you expect to feel his lips on you soon, but no. Instead, you feel his hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs warm against your cheeks. He presses a kiss to your eyelid. Then the other. A soft one to your cheekbone. A lingering kiss along your jaw that makes your breath hitch.
When your lips part and a breathless gasp escaped your lips, only then does he kiss you again.
This time, you don’t hold back. The kiss deepens naturally, carrying you both somewhere heavier, warmer. Hyunjin leans in until you’re sinking into the cushions, the sofa dipping beneath you, his body braced carefully above yours—close, but never careless.
When he pulls away, it’s only to trail kisses along your jaw, your neck, lower—each one slow enough to make your head spin.
You try to stay quiet. You really do. But the soft, breathless sounds slip out anyway.
He catches the last one with a kiss that steals what little air you have left. When he finally pulls back, he stays hovering above you, eyes dark, amused and tender all at once.
“You okay?” he asks.
You give him a shaky thumbs-up.
He laughs quietly, brushing your hair away from your face again. “Good.”
Then, his eyes look deeply into yours and says, “I know the part of me that says ‘divorced, single dad’ doesn’t sound very romantic.”
He punctuates it with a quick kiss to your lips. “But,” he adds, lingering close, his mouth grazing yours, “it does mean I’m pretty confident about the… spicy parts.”
He pauses, searching your face, the teasing replaced with care. “We can stop. Or we can move forward. It’s up to you.”
Still breathless, cheeks burning, you try to sound casual. “Yeah. I think we can… move on to the spicy part.”
He chuckles, clearly delighted, and you immediately cover your face with your hands, mortified.
“Don’t look at me.”
Instead of teasing you, Hyunjin scoops you up without warning.
You squeal, clapping a hand over your mouth as reality kicks in that Archie is sleeping. “Hyunjin—"
Your hands clutch at his chest, fingers curling into his shirt as he carries you down the hallway. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, heart pounding, warmth blooming everywhere.
“I’m just,” he adds softly, “trying to make it more romantic.”
Somehow, it already is with the way he carries you like you’re something delicate, something precious, and the care in it makes your chest ache.
Hyunjin lowers you onto the bed slowly, one hand braced beside your head, the other still steady at your waist like he’s afraid of letting go too soon. He hovers above you again, eyes searching your face, and then his lips find yours—soft at first, then deeper, dizzying.
It goes on like that. Kissing. Shifting closer. Bodies pressing together until the room feels smaller, warmer, filled with nothing but breath and heat and the quiet creak of the mattress beneath you.
It all starts to feel like too much in the best, overwhelming way. You pull back gently, resting your hand against his chest. “Hyunjin… give me a second.”
He immediately stills. “Yeah. Of course.”
He stays close but doesn’t touch, giving you space without leaving. You use the moment to really look at him. His eyes are softer up close. You trace the little mole under his left eye with your fingertip, your touch feather-light, like you’re afraid he might disappear if you press too hard. Your thumb brushes over his lips, plush and slightly swollen from kissing you.
You’ve known him for years, seen him almost every day, but never like this. Never this close. Never with this quiet, electric romance humming between you.
Hyunjin is so beautiful it steals the air from your lungs.
“God,” you murmur without thinking. “You’re… really beautiful.”
His mouth curves into a smile, shy and amused all at once. “But you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Hyunjin shifts, sitting up. His fingers move to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one.
Your eyes widen, heart pounding, you’re helpless under him and absolutely not complaining. You bring a hand to your mouth, biting back any sound as he shrugs the shirt off, exposing his toned arms, his chest, the quiet strength in the lines of his body. Heat rushes through you, settling everywhere all at once.
Hyunjin glances down at you, clearly enjoying the reaction, a smirk tugging at his lips. “So,” he asks softly, “what do you think?”
You swallow. “I’m thinking… a lot of girls would be really jealous of me right now.”
Something curious pulls at you then. Your hand reaches for him, hesitant, half-convinced he’s just a figment of your imagination. He notices immediately and takes your hand, pressing it flat against his chest.
“I’m very much real, yeah,” he jokingly says with a soft chuckle.
You touch him gently, reverently, like it’s something sacred. “I didn’t expect this under the dad sweaters and barista apron.”
He scoffs lightly. “Hey. I look good in those.”
You meet his eyes. “Well, honestly, you look good in everything.”
That makes him smiles, soft and pleased. He leans down again, bracing himself carefully above you, and captures your lips in a long, deep kiss that pulls you right back under him.
And whatever line there was between romantic and something more… it fades quietly, willingly, as you let yourself follow him there.
You kiss him back just as eagerly, your hands roaming over his bare upper body. He feels warm and solid beneath your palms, soft skin over strength that makes your head feel light. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world, slow and consuming, until you’re dizzy from it, until the room feels like it’s tilting.
When his hand drifts toward the opening of your blouse, a shaky breath slips out of you before you can stop it.
Hyunjin immediately stills, lifting his head to look at you. “You know you can stop me anytime, right?”
You shake your head quickly, flustered. “I—no. I’m just… shy.”
He scoffs playfully. “What, you think I’m hiding abs under here and you’re not?”
You laugh, the sound easing something tight in your chest, and that little moment of humor makes everything feel safer, easier. You lift yourself just enough to undo your blouse, and he helps you ease it off, careful and unhurried. Jeans follow, his first and then yours, movements clumsy but sweet as clothes are kicked aside and forgotten on the floor.
When there’s nothing left between you, reality hits all at once. You sit back against the pillows, arms crossed over yourself, legs tucked in shyly.
Hyunjin tilts his head, smiling. “What are you trying to hide from me?”
“The most un-romantic part of me,” you meekly answer.
He laughs softly before crawling closer anyway. “Guess I’ll have to see for myself.”
He gently moves your hands away, not rushing or forcing, just guiding until you’re lying bare beneath him. Your heart pounds, worry creeping in, all those quiet insecurities whispering at once.
But the way he looks at you… it’s nothing like you feared. His eyes trace you with awe, like he can’t comprehend it, like he can’t believe you’re real. His hands follow, touching you with reverence, slow and indulgent, making you shiver at the tenderness of it. He drags his hand from the base of your throat down the valley of your breasts, he rests his hand for a brief moment there on the ribcage, feeling the rise and fall of it with every breathe you take.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, and the words sink deep, settling somewhere warm inside you.
His lips replace his hands, kisses pressed to your collarbone, under your breast, your navel, your hip. Each kiss is unhurried, lingering and each one making you more breathless than the last. You gasp softly as he moves lower, taking his time, clearly enjoying every reaction he pulls from you.
Hyunjin knows where you want him the most, but he doesn't give it to you. Not yet. With a smirk, he pulls away, knees propped against the bed. A hand reaches for your leg and lifts it, there isn’t slightest of hesitation as he presses a kiss to your ankle.
From there, he continues to make a trail of kisses down your leg until he's there, head hanging between your leg. He looks at you, making you wait in anticipation for what he’s going to do next.
You feel faint from how much you’ve been holding your breath and when his mouth finally makes contact with your cunt, a breathless gasp spilled out of your parted mouth.
Hyunjin begins by landing kitten licks between your folds, making you wetter than you already are. His tongue darting out, the hot and slick of it pressing on your clit before it moves in slow, circular motions.
You’re squirming under him, your hips lifted off the bed, seeking pleasure of his hot mouth on you, but the hand resting on your stomach, firmly holding you down, not letting you go.
When he finally looks up at you, lips flushed, eyes dark and playful, the heat of his attention alone is enough to make you squirm. He doesn’t waste another second but to dive back in, giving you more of those delicious curls of his tongue on your clit, between your folds, around the entrance. He plants his mouth on your clit, sucking at it in such gentleness and intention and it feels overwhelming, dizzying.
Your moans slip out before you can stop them and hurriedly press your lips together, aware that Archie is sleeping in the next room. You clamp a hand over your mouth, body tensing even though every nerve is screaming otherwise.
Saying Hyunjin’s name feels like dragging it out of your lungs, broken and whispered, and you tug at his hair in a desperate attempt to get his attention.
“Hyunjin…”
He doesn’t hear it at first. Or maybe he does, but he’s far too focused, far too intent on pleasing you with his mouth like he’s forgotten the rest of the world exists. You’re helpless beneath him, caught between wanting him to stop and wanting him never to.
Your pleas dissolve into soft, ruined sounds, and you can’t even tell anymore what you’re asking for. Then everything inside you coiling, winding, overwhelming and when it finally breaks, you bite down hard on your lip, eyes squeezing shut as you fall apart in silence, every sensation crashing over you at once.
Hyunjin slows and then pulls back. He watches you with a knowing smirk tugging at his lips as you ride out the last of your orgasm, breath shaking, chest rising and falling.
Before you can even gather yourself, he’s above you again, one hand braced beside your head as he leans down and captures your mouth in a deep kiss, letting you have a taste of you lingering on his tongue and lips.
The two of you stay like that for a moment longer, just kissing with your body still humming as you drift down from the edge you’d just tipped over. Hyunjin’s mouth stays soft on yours, but there’s an unmistakable pull beneath it, a promise you both feel building again with every breath you share. There’s no denying that you’re both ready for what’s next.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours. “Give me a second, yeah?”
You nod, wrapping your arms around yourself as he shifts to the side. You watch him open the bedside drawer and there, next to his box of condoms is your book.
You laugh softly when you see it and reach for it before he can stop you, holding it up with a grin. “So you didn’t lie, huh?”
He doesn’t even deny it, just shrugs, a little sheepish, a little smug. You flip it open and spot the bookmarked part of the story. “Oh, you’re in the juicy part.”
“And I think,” he says, holding a condom in his hand now, voice teasing but steady, “we should catch up to it.”
You tuck the book away, suddenly shy all over again, and watch him with a kind of breathless awe as he takes his time, tearing through the foil packet and then carefully rolls the rubber down his stiff member.
When he looks up and catches you staring at his hard length, you don’t even bother pretending.
“I don’t think—” you start, then stop yourself, laughing softly. “It’s… big.”
His smile is easy, reassuring. “We’ll make it fit.”
The way he says it sends a shiver straight through you—half terrifying, half thrilling. You barely have time to react before he’s back with you, laughter and warmth knocking the air from your lungs as you both sink into the mattress again.
When he looks at you, his expression turns serious, tender. “Tell me if it’s uncomfortable, okay?”
You nod, and he takes his time—kissing you, touching you, grounding you—until your body softens, relaxes, opens to him without fear.
When Hyunjin finally settles between your legs, everything slows even more. He’s using his long, slender fingers to tease until you’re wet, drenched and only then, he begins using the tip of his cock to smear your essence all over your entrance. When he deems you're ready to take him, he aligns his cock and begins pushing into you.
The stretch, the sheer size of him, the sudden fullness — it’s overwhelming, not painful, just surprising. You cling to his shoulders, breathing through it, and he pauses immediately.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You nod, letting out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Just—wow.”
“Should I continue?”
“Definitely, yes,” you eagerly answer.
Hyunjin slowly pushing the remaining length with utter cautiousness and care. A breath caught in your throat the moment he’s fully buried inside you and your hands clawing at his shoulders, needing time to adjust to him and so does he.
Hyunjin presses his forehead with yours, just existing, processing that you're both connected to one another now and when he opens his eyes, they found yours instantly. He smiles a soft smile and says, "Let's take it slow, mmh?"
You nod, agreeing to it with a long kiss on his lips. For a moment, the two of you stay like that, adjusting to each other, just existing in the moment.
When he finally moves, it’s slow, agonizingly slow as if he wants you to feel everything.
And you do. The closeness. The heat. The way his lips keep finding yours, as if he can’t help it. It feels so deeply intimate that you're shivering all over.
A sound slips out of you before you can stop it, and his eyes darken with amusement. “I like hearing your beautiful moans,” he murmurs against your lips. “But if you get too loud, Archie’s going to hear.”
You barely have the presence of mind to be embarrassed. “But it— it feels too good,” you admit breathlessly.
His smile is pure trouble. One hand cups your jaw. “Then I’ll just have to keep kissing you.”
He does exactly that, mouth never leaving yours as his movements grow surer, deeper, more confident. But the moans keep slipping out of your mouth in between kisses anyway as Hyunjin is rocking his hips in this fluid motions, his cock nudging you right in the spot.
You lose yourself in it—cling to him, wrap yourself around him, let the sensations take over until everything else fades.
“Hyunjin, I’m close,” your voice breaking against his lips
He smiles against your lips. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
Then his hand reaches yours, slipping his fingers in the gaps and interlaced it together. He pins your interlocked hands next to your head as he adds more intensity and speed to his thrusts.
Soon, your moans turn into whimpers and cries against his lips but that seems to drive him further as he continues moving and taking you closer to your high. You cling to him, your legs wrapped tightly around him, not letting him go.
When the high finally crashes, you fall together. It’s messy, breathless, overwhelming. You shatter first, and he follows right after, holding you so tightly it feels like he’s afraid to let go.
When it’s over, you’re still tangled together, fingers laced, foreheads touching, hearts racing in the same uneven rhythm.
You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. For now, it’s enough to stay exactly like this.
-
The room quiet except for the soft rhythm of his breathing as Hyunjin lies close to you.
Hyunjin is already half-gone, sleep pulling him under with that unfair ease of his. His arm is draped around you like it belongs there, heavy and warm across your waist, his fingers curled loosely at your side. Every so often, he shifts closer in his sleep, instinctive, like he’s making sure you haven’t disappeared.
You’re too aware of everything—of the way his chest rises beneath your cheek, of how his face softens completely when he sleeps, lashes resting against skin that still holds a trace of warmth. He looks different like this. Younger. Gentler. Less guarded. Real.
You trace nothing, touch nothing, just watch and quietly imprinting it in the back of your head.
Your body is tired in the best way, pleasantly sore, deeply comfortable, but your mind won’t slow down. It keeps replaying moments—the way he looked at you, the way he asked instead of assumed, the way he held you afterward like this was exactly where you were meant to be.
Romance.
The word doesn’t feel stupid right now.
Hyunjin exhales, long and slow, and tightens his arm just a little, pulling you closer in his sleep. Your forehead ends up tucked beneath his chin, your legs tangled together without either of you meaning to. Your chest tightens—not with fear this time, but with something fragile and hopeful. You rest your palm lightly against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath your hand, and for the first time in a long while, the thought doesn’t scare you.
For so long, you thought romance was something loud. Grand. Scripted. Something you had to chase or imagine into existence. Maybe you’ve found it.
And maybe, this time, it’s not something you made up.
-
You wake up slow, heavy-limbed, wrapped in warmth that doesn’t quite register at first.
The ceiling isn’t yours. That’s the first thing that feels off. The light is different too—softer, slipping in through unfamiliar curtains, painting the room in pale gold. You blink, disoriented, heart giving a small, confused jump before reality comes rushing back all at once.
Hyunjin. Last night. Everything.
A smile blooms on your lips before you can stop it, small and private and a little stunned. It lingers until you shift and feel cool sheets beside you. His side of the bed is empty.
Your chest tightens just a little as you turn, half-expecting the room to be empty, half-dreading the ridiculous thoughts that try to creep in, but then you see him.
Hyunjin stands by the wardrobe with his back to you, rummaging through hangers like this is the most normal morning in the world. He’s wearing only his jeans, hair still messy from sleep, sunlight spilling over his bare upper body like it’s intentional—like the universe is showing off.
You stay quiet as you don’t want to break this moment, eyes admiring the muscles on his back as he grabs a T-shirt, biceps flexing as he slips it on.
Then he turns and catches you watching. He doesn’t tease you. He just smiles. He crosses the room and climbs back onto the bed, moving carefully, like he’s aware you’re still half-dreaming.
You instinctively pull the duvet up to cover half your face, suddenly shy in that dazed, just-woke-up way, but he doesn’t seem to care at all.
He presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “Good morning.”
You don’t answer. You just stare at him, eyes wide, still trying to reconcile this version of reality with the one you had yesterday.
He chuckles quietly. “Still weird?”
You nod.
He tilts his head. “Weird because it doesn’t feel weird?”
Another nod.
His fingers brush your hair back gently, but instead of stopping there, his lips trail to your bare shoulder. A kiss. Then your neck. Your jaw. Slow. Warm. When he finally kisses your lips, it’s brief and sweet, like punctuation instead of a question.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. “I’ll give you time to process,” he says softly. “When you’re ready, come out. I’ll make breakfast.”
You nod again, the words still stuck somewhere in your chest.
Hyunjin presses one last quick peck to your lips, flashes you a smile that feels dangerously domestic, and slips out of the room.
The second the door clicks shut, you fall back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling, hands flying to your face as a muffled squeal escapes you. This is your life now and it’s real.
After a while, you decide you can’t stay buried in the bed forever, no matter how tempting it is. Reality has caught up to you whether you’re ready or not—so you sit up, rub at your face, and shuffle straight into the bathroom to fix whatever crime sleep has committed on your appearance.
You splash water on your face. Tie your hair. Stare at your reflection a little too long.
And then a very silly, very romantic thought slips in.
You step back into Hyunjin’s bedroom and drift toward his wardrobe. It’s annoyingly neat, everything folded and hung with care. You tug on a pair of his pajama pants that are much too long on you, the fabric pooling at your ankles, then a soft sweater that smells faintly like coffee and him.
You pad out of the bedroom slowly, still half-processing everything, when a door creaks open to your left.
Archie with his hair is sticking up in every direction, eyes half-lidded as he rubs at them with tiny fists. He looks at you and you look at him. There’s a beat of silence where your heart politely panics.
Recognition dawns and his face breaks into a sleepy smile. “Oh. It’s you.”
He doesn’t question why you’re there, doesn’t question the clothes. In his mind, you’re just… you. A friend. Someone safe. Someone who belongs.
He reaches out and grabs your hand with surprising determination. “Come on,” he says, voice thick with sleep. “Let’s have daddy cook waffles.”
Before you can even respond, he’s already tugging you down the hallway, calling out, “Daddyyy!” like it’s the most important announcement of the morning.
The kitchen smells like coffee when you arrive. Hyunjin is by the counter, grinding coffee beans, sleeves pushed up, hair still soft and messy. He looks up at the sound of Archie’s feet stomping against the wooden floor and when he sees Archie dragging you along by the hand, something in his expression melts instantly.
“Morning, beautiful boy,” he says, warm and gentle.
Archie lets go of you only to climb straight into Hyunjin’s arms. Hyunjin lifts him without effort, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Did you sleep well?”
Archie mumbles something about sharks or jellyfish or some hybrid creature only his dreams can invent, probably mixing it up with the memories from yesterday’s aquarium trip and you smile to yourself, watching the way Hyunjin listens like it all makes perfect sense. Then his gaze shifts to you.
“How about you?” he asks, playful. “Did you sleep well?”
You lean against the counter, sweater sleeves hiding your hands, and smile back at him. “The best sleep I’ve ever had.”
Hyunjin’s lips twitch, like he’s trying very hard not to react too much.
Archie, meanwhile, has already moved on to his next priority. “Waffles,” he announces firmly.
“Yes, waffles,” you echo, immediately siding with him.
Archie grins and turns his full puppy eyes on his dad. You do the same, dramatically clasping your hands together like this is a life-or-death negotiation. “Please…”
Hyunjin looks between the two of you, utterly outnumbered. “…I was going to make toast,” he starts.
“Nooo,” Archie whines.
“Please,” you add, not even pretending to be subtle.
He sighs, defeated, but smiling. “Fine. Waffles.”
“Yay!” You and Archie cheer in unison.
As Hyunjin moves around the kitchen, pulling ingredients, brewing coffee, slipping seamlessly into this routine, you realize something quietly, deeply terrifying—
This doesn’t feel new. It feels like something you’ve been doing for a long time already and God, it feels romantic.
-
The morning is warm with the promise of spring that will arrive soon. Archie’s small hand fits in yours as you walk him to kindergarten. He’s chatty as usual, talking about his funny classmate and the pet fish in his class and how his dad promised his favorite food for dinner later, and you listen, smiling, nodding, feeling strangely at home beside him.
Arrived at the gate of his kindergarten, you kneel to straighten his jacket and he hugs you without hesitation.
“Have the best day ever, okay?” you say when you pull away, patting his cheek gently.
He eagerly nods and raises his hand for a wave. “Buh-bye,” he says with his whisker-dimpled smile before disappearing inside with his teacher following closely behind him.
You walk back alone, heart light. You pull your phone out and compose a text: Mini Hyunjin is safely at school.
When you step into your apartment, your phone buzzes with his reply: Big Hyunjin is baking your treats.
You smile at the screen, something fond settling in your chest: Big??!!!
Hyunjin’s reply comes in an instant: You said it yourself. Remember?
Your mouth hangs open but nothing comes out. Just a quiet shock. You used to be scared of this, of this change, afraid that everything else will change as well. But nothing feels rushed. Nothing feels different in a way that’s scary. He’s still the next-door neighbor who own a coffee shop. You’re still the writer with deadlines and empty coffee cups. Archie still needs to be walked to school. Coffee still tastes the same. Yet everything feels new and more… romantic.
You grab your laptop and just as you’re about to start typing, a knock echoes through the space. You freeze for half a second and then walk to the door. When you open it, you’re genuinely caught off guard.
Han stands there, coffee tray balanced in one hand, a paper bag of pastries in the other. He smiles when he sees you, easy and familiar, like he’s always belonged in your doorway.
“Hey,” he says. “I brought coffee.”
You blink once. Twice. Then you step aside, opening the door wider.
“Oh—yeah. Come in.”
A moment later, the two of you are in the living room, coffee cups warming your hands, pastries spread out on the table. There’s a little bit of everything in the bag.
“I couldn’t remember what you got me that day,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “So I just… panicked and bought all of them.”
You laugh. “That explains a lot.”
After a while, you add, “but I appreciate it.”
It goes quiet for a moment until Han clears his throat. “Haven’t seen you much lately,” he says. “Figured you were either busy writing or… avoiding me.”
You shake your head quickly. “Just busy. Writing.”
He nods, accepting that easily. Silence settles again and then he exhales. “Can I ask you something?”
You look at him and nod.
“That night,” he says carefully. “Did I do something? Or say something that annoyed you?”
This only proves that you always know that Han is a decent person and you didn’t made up that part of him. You hesitate, then shake your head. “No. It’s not about that. You’re fine—everything’s fine.”
You pause, fingers tightening slightly around your cup. “If anything, it’s me. Not you.”
Han nods like he understands, like he really does. Then he grins.
“Or you can be honest and say that it’s my lame band.”
You laugh despite yourself. “No.”
He narrows his eyes at you as he says, “I can tell that you hated the band.”
“I didn’t hate it,” you correct honestly. “It’s just… not really my cup of tea. But it’s not lame.”
He hums, considering. “That’s good to hear.”
The conversation flows easier after that, lighter. He asks about your book, and you tell him you’re still working on it.
“Do I get a copy when it’s done?” he asks.
You smile. “Do you even read romance books?”
He shrugs. “What, you think a guy in a band can’t enjoy romance?”
You shrug back. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
The two of you laugh, and for the first time in days, the tension in your chest loosens. When Han eventually leaves, coffee cups empty and pastries half-gone, you realize you’re smiling, not because of what could’ve been, but because things ended exactly the way they should’ve.
-
You’re writing at Hyunjin’s coffee shop again like always and time slipping through your fingers without asking permission. Words come easily today, sentences stacking gently on top of each other.
You only realize how long it’s been when you lift your cup and find it empty. Before you can even sigh about it, a fresh one appears in front of you. You look up and find Hyunjin standing next to you, already smiling.
“Thanks,” you murmur, fingers curling around the warm ceramic.
He doesn’t move away. Instead, he leans in just enough that his voice drops, conspiratorial and soft. “Someone wants me to say this to you.”
You glance up at him through your lashes, already amused. “Yeah?”
“He says you’re beautiful,” Hyunjin continues, eyes bright, “and he wants to know if you’d like to have dinner with him and his very charming five-year-old son.”
Your smile blooms because you know exactly who that someone is, but you decide to play along. You lean in too, whispering back, “Tell him he shouldn’t flirt with his regular.”
Hyunjin’s smile turns smug. He leans even closer, close enough that only you can hear him. “Perks of being the owner.”
Before you can reply, he steals a kiss, almost sneaky. His plush lips brushing over yours and you kiss him back just as instinctively. When you pull away, you’re both smiling.
He straightens, gentle fingers squeezing your shoulder. “I’ll let you get back to it,” he says, already halfway gone, slipping back into the back of the counter.
You take a sip of coffee, warmth spreading through you, and turn back to your laptop. That’s when you hear the soft whispers from the table nearby. Girls giggling, voices hushed but not enough.
“I’m so jealous of them,” one says.
“They’re so cute,” another sighs.
You pretend not to hear it and smile to yourself. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a second longer than necessary as something settles in your chest.
This. Writing romance in the afternoon light. Sitting in a café that smells like coffee and home. A man who refills your cup before you ask. A child who holds your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Stolen kisses. Laughter, routine, warmth.
Then you look out of the window and at the city bathed in sunlight, the blue sky with cotton candy-like clouds, a bicycler who pets the dog that sits inside the front basket as he waits for the traffic light to turn green, a young girl sitting on the bench with headphones on, completely immersed in the book she’s reading, an elderly couple who hold hands as they argue over the restaurant menu.
You smile to yourself as you look back at your laptop and start typing again.
Hyunjin was right.
Everything is romantic.
-
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